


Of Blood and Biocomponents

by Shadows_echoes



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: (it's barely even a sidenote don't worry), (sort of but not really), Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Everyone Is In Denial, Everyone needs a break, F/M, Fighting, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Minor Injuries, Not something I'd read at the dinner table w/ the fam, Other, References to Depression, References to anxiety, Romantic Angst, Romantic Soulmates, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Soulmates, Swearing, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violence, Weapons, and major injuries (i mean what did y'all expect with this kind of an au?), and shit hits the fan, eventually, me discreetly releasing my everlasting frustration and rage with capitalism, nobody gets a break, things get a bit not good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-06 14:03:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16834072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadows_echoes/pseuds/Shadows_echoes
Summary: A soulmate AU where injuries from one person appear on the body of the other.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Ruthless!Connor x reader fic, so our sweet, sweet deviant boi isn't in this one, unfortunately. (Ruthless!Connor is basically machine!Connor but with the possibility of deviancy. I.e. regardless of whether or not he's deviant, he behaves mercilessly 99% of the time and always acts like he does during the in-game interrogation scenes etc.).

For your entire life you had gone without acquiring any injuries from your soulmate.

In primary school, when all the other kids were showing off their soul-wounds, you went along with them and compared random bruises and scrapes.

In junior high, you started paying more attention to your injuries. The origins of the odd bruise or two would escape your notice, however, and you chalked them up to your soulmate. It was an illusion that didn’t last. 

You became hyper-aware of your body -it _was_ junior high- and realized every blister, bruise, and paper-cut could be explained by your own actions.

It was in high school when you became worried. _Truly_ worried. It wasn’t just a sad night here and there when you wanted company, someone to share experiences with and a partner who understood you, but actual anxiety and depression. 

Your best friend at the time, the only person you confided in, suggested that maybe your soulmate was just an overlycautious individual, or that maybe the age gap was large enough that your soulmate hadn’t gotten around to getting seriously hurt yet. The former suggestion was so unlikely you can still remember the scoff leaving your throat; the later grossed you so much you decided you’d rather not have a soulmate at all.

It was in university that you finally accepted the truth: you didn’t have a soulmate.

After a particularly rough couple of weeks, you had grabbed the plastic cap of a pen and dug into your forearm. No blood was drawn, your skin didn’t even break; it was only enough pressure to leave three distinct words formed from irritated skin.

**_Where are you?_ **

Every night for two and a half weeks you had written a different question or prompt or plea. There was never a response, and the months following the experiment were a blur. One minute it was the middle of March and the next it was September.

Everyone had a soulmate. You were _supposed_ to have a soulmate.

There were cases, of course, of people never finding their soulmates. But in all your research -for it _was_ research- no one had gone any significant number of years without so much as one soul-wound. No one, it seemed, but you. So many years of your life passed without a single hint to your soulmate’s existence that their inexistence was the only explanation left.

You were alone.

Naturally, you have had partners in the past but, unsurprisingly, they never quite worked out. However, having a partner in life wasn’t everything. You moved on. The begrudging resentment in your chest each time someone brought up their soulmate, or how they first met their soulmate, was pushed so far down you nearly forgot it was there. You stopped hoping, told yourself that you didn’t care about your non-existent soulmate so many times that you eventually believed it.

While the world was entirely captivated by finding their soulmate, by putting their lives on hold for that special someone, saying _“it’ll be worth it in the end,”_ you became entirely and wholly independent of everyone. Personal development became your sole drive. You threw yourself into your education, into your passions, even into your shitty part-time jobs. You learned by yourself at your own pace, you took step by solitary step towards your goals, you traveled alone, and you explored yourself and humanity alone. It was all you could do.

For your entire life you had gone without any soul-wounds.

Which was why the gaping hole in your shoulder with no external cause was so stupefying.

You were raced to the hospital, informed that the injury was probably from a bullet and patched up accordingly. Then you raced home.

The doorframe and the wall it was attached to rattled as you slammed the door to your apartment shut behind you. The jacket you tore off your body threatened to rip from the violence and haste of the action. Cutlery went flying as you wrenched open and dug through a kitchen drawer.

You gave up on ever having a soulmate a long time ago. But behind your ribs in some minuscule, dusty part of your heart you couldn’t quite reach, a spot too hidden away to be thoroughly crushed, sat hope. It was that part of you which assumed you would be happy to finally have proof of your soulmate’s existence. Ecstatic even. Filled with joy. 

You weren’t crying tears of joy.

You were livid.

You were fuming.

Gentility was thrown so far out of the window it landed across the street.

The efficiency and rapidness with which you carved three words into your forearm with a sharp knife was brutal.

And you didn’t care.

You almost wanted your soulmate to hurt -to hurt for everything they needlessly put you through. 

Years, _years,_ you’d spent wondering what was wrong with you to be the exception of a _universal rule_.

For _years_ you’d dealt with crippling loneliness and doubt and depression as you gazed at the happy people around you.

You wanted to know who your soulmate was, but _only_ so you could punch whoever it was in the face and drop them to the ground yourself.

**_Who are you?_ **


	2. Chapter 2

You waited for hours, that night, but just like every other time you’d attempted to communicate, there was no answer.

Words were etched into the skin of your arms, and when you reached your shoulders and ran out of space, you moved on to your legs. Sometimes it would be another question or a prompt, other times it would be demands for an explanation.

In a moment of weakness and with gritted teeth, you even wrote:

**_I thought you didn’t exist._ **

It was a confession, but it was also meant to drag something out of your soulmate: shock, guilt, a mutuality, _something._

_Something_ to get them to respond. Anything.

Writing into one’s skin wasn’t an uncommon occurrence among soulmates, a lot of the time it helps them find each other. In most instances, however, the letters were hardly deep enough to even be classified as cuts. In most instances, the light scratchings would only leave a faint imprint of letters in the skin and would fade within minutes.

You weren’t that careful. The words which passed through your skin were not pleasant. The seemingly bottomless well of frustration masked the pain, however, and the odd tear diluted any dotting blood.

It quickly became clear that your soulmate had no intention of answering. They had no desire to have anything to do with you. So, with your body littered with red, unacknowledged words, you gave up.

You would’ve liked to say that it was easy since you had so much experience with solidarity, but it wasn’t. It was worse. It was _far_ worse knowing your soulmate existed and just… _didn’t care_. 

Your heart still plummeted.

You tried your damnedest to ignore it, to push all of it down and away and out of your mind, to move on with your life. And you did… for the most part.

The weeks which passed were filled with silence.

Well, silence and pain.

Whoever your soulmate was, they would unquestionably be the death of you. It was like they’d saved up a lifetime’s worth of brutal injuries to transfer to you within a handful of weeks. And they _were_ brutal. You were spared papercuts, stubbed toes, and small bruises. Instead, you received bullet wounds, fractured ribs, and broken appendages. You were in and out of the hospital frequently enough that you knew most of the staff by name now. Hell, you even knew the names of a few of their kids by this point.

When a soul-wound appeared, it, by nature, fell somewhere between uncomfortable and deadly depending on the damage inflicted. If one’s arm suddenly breaks with no apparent cause, one is bound to freak out a bit. It is natural. Expected.

Never personally having had to deal with this problem before, you were decidedly _not_ accustomed to the amount of attention it brought you. Perhaps the nature of your injuries had something to do with it, but the gazes cast your way felt heavier than they had any right to be. Whenever a short shriek of surprise or pain escaped you in public, a soul-wound manifesting somewhere on your body, people looked at you with surprise, fear, and frustration.

One of your professors even crossed himself when you started gushing blood halfway through his lecture.

You almost preferred those reactions though, the looks of undiluted fear and the tired, half-smiles of sympathy before people quickly carried on with their day. Because the people who stopped to help you, as wonderful and life-saving as they were, always asked variations of the same question and you always had the same answer: you didn’t know. 

You didn’t know who your soulmate was, what they did for a living, or what they had gotten themselves into.

Those who stopped to help were nearly worse because their helping hands always turned into pity-filled eyes.

The exception to this rule seemed to be your boss. She would help, to an extent, but after your fourth bad injury at work she took you aside and _suggested_ that you figure things out- figure things out and not come back until you did.

How you were supposed to do such a thing was a mystery to you, and you had half a mind to tell her to shove it where the sun didn’t shine. The only clues you had to your soulmate’s identity was that they lacked the skill of communication, they got into a whole heck of a lot of fights, and must have access to some fan-freaking-tastic medical equipment because you hadn’t the faintest idea how they could get hurt so much without taking a breather to heal. Well, it was that or they were actively trying to die in the slowest, most creative way possible.

None of it particularly helped you sort out their identity.

But there were plenty of bills that needed to be paid. So, naturally, you went back to work a few days later and told your boss with your most convincing smile, as you lied through your teeth, that you had figured it all out. She bought it.

It was only six days after that, when you were helping a couple friends move into their new place, when everything shifted.

You carried what could only be a box full of lead up a set of stairs when someone struck you. Of course, no one actually hit _you,_ but that didn’t prevent you from flinching. And that was precisely your mistake: flinching.

You jerked enough at the pain blossoming over your left cheekbone that you lost your balance and went right back down the stairs. The box you carried tumbled down right alongside you, leaving hard-cover books strewn across the stairs and the landing, as a throbbing pain of your own to shot through your ankle.

The blow, the landing, and the newest pain leave you wheezing. You still find enough reserved air in your lungs, however, to cry out as a large burn appears across your palm and the pads of your fingers not moments later.

Three and a half hours after that, you sit sprawled across your couch with your sprained ankle atop an armrest and your burned hand wrapped in gauze.

As irritated as you already were, you _seethed_ as another injury began forming on your arm. Except… the steady stream of curses spewing from your lips died as soon as you glanced down.

Your jaw dropped too.

It wasn’t a bruise or a burn or a cut.

It was _multiple_ cuts.

They formed words.

In clear, perfect script neatly etched into your forearm, read:

**_Your injuries are highly inconveniencing. Prevent them._ **

The words were not inscribed deeply enough to hit anything important, but they were deep. Blood crawled from the incisions and collected on the underside of your arm, rolling down to meet your elbow.

And all you could do was stare.

_Inconveniencing._

_Inconveniencing._

_Inconveniencing._

You just received your first and only words from your _soulmate_ and it was an _insult?_ A goddamn _reprimand?_ And an _incorrect_ reprimand at that? The pure _audacity_ made you bristle.

Sure, you might’ve drawn some blood here and there, but you hadn’t hospitalized _them_! _You_ were most certainly _not_ the inconveniencing one in this relationship, and every part of you _yearned_ to tell them that.

But you didn’t.

Call it reciprocity or pettiness or shock, but you didn’t reply. Because even if you did, even if you repeated all your previous questions or told off your soulmate, you had a sinking, suffocating feeling this was all you’d ever get from them. Apathy and misdirected instructions.

They gave you no reason to expect otherwise.

It took you forever to fall asleep that night, and when you finally did, it was with a heavy heart and a hollow feeling consuming your chest.

-

It was a peculiarity that you saw the news the following night. You only turned on the television for some background noise, it’s not like you intended on paying attention to the reruns of previously aired clips from recent stories.

It was a fluke of nature that you looked up when you did.

It was nothing short of an anomaly for your notice to catch on the man in the background of one of the clips. He was only in frame for about two seconds before he, with an imperfect gait, brushed passed and disappeared behind some police officers. Perhaps the impartial universe was simply feeling generous in that moment, but the man was in focus and for _just long enough_ to distinguish the faint smear of blueblood just above his cheekbone.

Exactly where your own blood had spilled.

Exactly where the bruise still sat.

And all you can think is:

Android.

_Android._

_Android._

_Android._

-

It took you five days, countless calls, a few accidental meltdowns, cashing in on three different favors, asking for two _other_ favors, and some, uh, slight impersonation to get all the necessary information. But, at the very least, no one could claim you weren’t determined.

Connor.

The man you saw on the news was named Connor.

He’s an RK800 prototype recently developed by Cyberlife. Forty-eight days ago, while on his second mission, he was shot in the shoulder. It coincided with your first soul-wound perfectly. Time, placement, the extent of the damage, all of it. It all matched. He had had plenty of missions since then -all successful- and, from what you could gather, all of his wounds perfectly matched with yours.

It explained everything.

_He_ explained everything.

The guy didn’t have great medical insurance; he swapped out any and all damaged parts. He didn’t have a death-wish; he couldn’t die. He wasn’t, entirely, a masochist, he just couldn’t feel pain.

In recent years, plenty of androids have been discovered to have soulmates. Most often, androids had soulmates who were also androids, _other times_ … It wasn’t the easiest thing for you to accept but it was hardly the most difficult. After going through life thinking you were destined to be alone and then finally discovering that you did have a soulmate only to learn of his apathy… Accepting that he was an android was something that happened in under a minute and over a half a cup of coffee.

You cared less about what color his blood was and more about how much of a jerk he seemed to be. You cared less about spending the rest of your life with him and more about staying alive for the foreseeable future.

**_Connor?_ **

After learning his name you’d scratched it into your arm for… confirmation? To show that you knew? Regardless of the reasoning, you’d be lying if you said you had expected him to respond. You’d also be lying if you said his lack of response wasn’t disappointing.

But, then again, no one could claim you weren’t determined.

Connor. It sounded strange in your thoughts and stranger on your lips. 

He looked different in person. 

Not _bad,_ not by a long shot, but different. Much to your mounting dismay, he had a face you could stare at for hours. At least, that’s your conclusion from the few glances you had been able to steal of it. It was rather difficult to judge when all you got a good look at was the back of him.

Tall. Broad, set shoulders. A fitted android jacket. Long, determined strides. That much was abundantly clear to you even from the slight distance.

It took you a couple of shots to catch up with him, but once you finally did it was unnervingly easy to follow him. You wanted to chalk it up to your amazing super-spy skills but were wary to jump to that conclusion. Perhaps he simply wasn’t aware of anyone following him or, more likely, just didn’t care.

All three notions were dashed the second you followed him around a corner and down a side hallway, however.

You’re silently pinned against a wall before you can blink, a hand resting above your collarbone and around your throat.

“Is there any reason in particular you’re following me?”

His grip was undeniably strong, but he wasn’t exerting enough pressure for it to hurt. It was to hold you in place. Though the lack of _excessive_ force may have had something to do with your lack of resistance- you were too stunned. Angry and indignant and defensive immediately wanting to punch him for jumping you, but stunned. 

You had intended on talking to him but… this wasn’t exactly what you had in mind.

Glancing sideways, you realize both of you are entirely out of sight of the offices -and _people_ \- not twenty feet away.

Connor stares down at you flatly, expectantly, but it’s his calmness that strikes you more than anything. More than your current position. More than _him, right here,_ in front of you.

There’s an ease to his hostility, an underlying layer of confidence to his actions that’s worn like a second layer of synthetic skin.

Confidence. That’s what you need right now, and despite everything, it is surprisingly easy to channel. You may be a lot of things as you stare up at the sharp lines of his face, but intimidated isn’t, for some reason, one of them.

“Unfortunately, yes,” you reply, dryly.

He waits for you to elaborate, dark, coffee-brown eyes analyzing you as much as you were analyzing him.

_Neat_ is one word that pops into your mind as you stare up at him. _Unbridled_ is another.

He doesn’t worry you nearly as much as he should; the grin tugging at your lips worries you. Because you know something he doesn’t, and that feels _good._ It gives you power. A much different kind of power considering you are still pinned to a wall, granted, but it is there. You know as much about Connor as anyone outside of Cyberlife possibly could -and then some-. The most he could know about you are basic facts.

The pressure around your throat increases.

“Easy with that grip, Connor, you might hurt yourself.” The words are slightly breathy, but the smirk in them -and the one on your face- is blatant.

His eyes narrow at your remark and you can’t help but agree. Behind your smirk, you are kicking yourself, and behind the mental beratement, you’re cackling.

Soulmate or not, it was positively delightful to finally, _after all this time_ , meet this guy and have something over him. Even if it is only for a moment. Even if you aren’t sure you’d ever see him again after this.

“It is in your best interest to answer the question within the next five seconds.”

The commanding tone in his voice isn’t subtle, but it is smooth. And, _ohh, how you want to wait_. You _itch_ to wait _seven long seconds_ before answering, to mess with him, to push his buttons just because you can.

It‘s undoubtedly foolish to think so given your current predicament, but you don’t think he will actually hurt you. However, you did know enough about Connor to know precisely how… _lethal_ he is, and you don’t particularly feel like testing your hypothesis.

Slowly holding up your hand, you showcase the faded, nearly-healed burn marks that trailed across your skin.

Connor might’ve grabbed a gun just after it had been fired or he might’ve high-fived a campfire for all you knew. The point was that even with the advanced medical care in this day and age, it couldn’t quite keep up with your growing collection of injuries.

His hard gaze slides from yours to your hand and back again, unfazed. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“Well, it should since you’re the one who gave it to me.”

For a moment, he only stares. 

For a moment, you watch him processing your words.

Then, realization flashes in his eyes and he _recoils_.

His hand flies from your skin as though _you_ burned _him;_ he practically jumps in his haste to get away from you. His LED indicator is a whirlwind of reds and yellows- 

But it settles on blue.

He recovers swiftly enough, but he stays a few feet away, glaring at you like you’re carrying some kind of virus. The ease, the confidence… it was all still there, but it’s now mixed with a layer of tension.

He looks you over with nothing short of disdain, and it’s the most emotion you have seen him emit as of yet.

You lower your hand, closing it into a loose fist by your side to keep from rubbing at your throat.

The reaction stung, you couldn’t lie about that even to yourself. It was practically the polar opposite of the reaction you’d dreamed of getting when you were younger. You hadn’t come here with much hope - _you had no idea what to expect_ -, but he had just shot down whatever was left of it, dousing the remains in gasoline and setting it aflame.

But you’d be damned if you let him see it- see how much affected you. You could still do what you came here for; all you really wanted was to _not_ have a blood transfusion every other week. 

“ _Easy_ ,” you grind out, a small sneer meeting your expression. “I’m not here with a declaration of love, don’t get your programming in a bunch.”

Perhaps you are evenly suited for each other after all -something you’d avoided thinking about- because just as you use your emotions to steel your resolve, Connor seems to use your bristling to cement his freezing impartiality.

His head tilts ever so slightly to the side. “Tell me, are you ever straightforward or are you always this irritating?”

You’re only partially successful at wrestling back your sigh. “Listen, dude, if you’re not digging me an early grave, you’re burying me under medical debt,” you explain.

“And?”

You squint at him. “And do you have any idea how expensive that shit is? You might be able to get repaired for free and in under five minutes, but I can’t. Do you mind, you know, getting hurt less?”

“I do whatever it takes to accomplish my mission,” he informs, as though you weren’t already _keenly_ aware of that fact.

“Even if it goes against your programming by creating unnecessary damage and a potential casualty?” you fire back, raising your brows at him.

“Yes,” he states so lowly it’s nearly a growl. He takes a step towards you too, something dangerous tempering his eyes. “Even then.”

He was trying to prove something to you, that much was obvious, but you wondered if he was also trying to prove to himself what a good plastic soldier he is. After all, Cyberlife hasn’t had the best time marketing their “ _merchandise_ ” when the whole soulmate thing trashed the _Machine versus Alive_ debate.

Through your research, you’d gotten the impression that Connor was supposed to fix that little problem of theirs. He wasn’t supposed to have a soulmate -not that Cyberlife could control any of that stuff as much as they like to pretend otherwise.

At the moment you’re far too frustrated to feel any sympathy for him though. 

“ _Gees_ , just try not to die, alright? That shouldn’t be beyond your _capabilities,_ ” you sneer. You move to leave but stop yourself short. “Oh, and if you do end up killing me, I’m going to haunt your ass out of spite and you’ll never be rid of me.” 

Then, after flashing him a barbed smile, you turn on your heel and head for the exit.

The derision positively _seeps_ from his voice as he calls at your back, “ _ghosts_ don’t _exist._ ”

“Oh, but they will,” you promise, not breaking your stride.

You spent a good portion of your life looking for your soulmate, and the rest of it thinking you didn’t have one. If he was anyone else, if _you_ were anyone else, this meeting may have gone entirely differently, but alas…

You just officially met your soulmate, and he’s an _ass_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can’t tell me Ruthless!Connor wouldn’t think of soulmates in general as a weakness. And his soulmate? When what happens to one happens to the other? The boi would be low-key pissed.
> 
> Also, I have a tumblr in case anyone's bored/interested: shadows-echoes.tumblr.com


	3. Chapter 3

Working the late shift at your job wasn’t something you minded much. Obviously, it wasn’t your favorite shift but, then again, your job wasn’t exactly your dream job either. It was work; it paid the bills. In this precise moment, however, you find yourself cursing the late-night hours you were assigned and the dark, _almost_ empty streets you were thusly left to walk down.

“Listen,” you calmly address, “all I’ve got on me is a used textbook and a broken phone.”

The lie leaves your lips easily- or as easily as it could considering the circumstances. In truth, you also have twenty bucks and a few bus tickets on you. And while the textbook _is_ used, it still costs half a month’s worth of rent for some godforsaken reason. 

But the man standing a measly few feet away pointing a gun at you doesn’t need to know that little detail.

His face is shadowed by the distinct lack of light filtering into the grungy alley and obscured by a low hood. Even so, you’re careful to keep your eyes on him and not on the dark, semi-reflective gun he held. He looks about your age if not a bit older, from what you can tell, and his clothes don’t exactly fit the definition of clean. He looks… Well, he looks _rough_ to put it one way, and the gun he clutches doesn’t look to be fairing much better.

“ _Shut up_ ,” he barks, “just hand over your bag!”

The nerves standing on edge throughout every inch of your body and your racing, jumping mind don’t help you in the slightest, you know. So, grinding your teeth, you force down the fear. You bury the alarm- channel it into something useful, something more productive than anxiety, a flying heartrate, and shaking limbs: anger. An anger that brewed just below the surface, roused by inequity.

Did you really want to risk the possibility of being shot over some cash and a scribbled-in textbook? Yes. Yes, you absolutely do. Is it worth it- worth more than your life? No. Well, maybe in today’s economy but that wasn’t the point. You should’ve been halfway home by now, safe, and blocking out the memories of the shift you just finished.

With careful movements, you slowly slide the old backpack from your shoulders as you eye the man before you, biding your time, thinking.

You hear it just as you’re extending the bag towards him.

Sirens.

 _Police_ sirens, to be exact. And they sounded _awfully_ close by.

It was almost comical, the way the two of you freeze, eyes darting towards the opening of the alley before darting back to each other. Watching. Waiting.

For one long breath you don’t dare to breathe, that’s all there is: sirens. Sirens, you observing him, and him observing you.

Police.

Witnesses.

Help.

_Opportunity._

Internally, you smirk.

His fingers shake as he readjusts his hold, grip tightening around the handle of the gun. He jerks his head sharply in warning, no doubt guessing the thoughts running through your mind. “ _Don’t-_ ”

The rest of the threat is silenced.

Holding tightly to your bag, you swing it with as much force as you can muster at his hand- at the gun. The weapon clatters to the ground and skids across the rough concrete, but just as it does your mind registers the burning sensation ripping across your chest and the gunshot ringing in your ears.

You ignore it.

The piercing sound, the searing feeling _,_ the undoubtedly bloody consequences-you ignoreall of it. You don’t freak out or lose your mind- you might not have time for that. So you swallow down the simmering anger you’d channeled, the half-foreign surge of rage urging you to deck the guy and _drag him_ out of this alleyway and right up to the police, and instead do the smart thing. 

You use what’s left of his surprise to your advantage, and you run.

-

Your reception at the hospital went about as well as you could’ve imagined. Nurses smiled at the return of your familiar face before quickly scowling once they caught sight of blood that soaked your shirt.

The wound was not that bad, at least in regard to the others you’d received on previous occasions. It was more of a deep graze above your ribs than a bullet wound. You were even able to make your statement to the police _while_ you were getting stitched up; it wasn’t a big deal.

At least… to you.

Within five minutes of finally, _finally,_ making it back to your apartment at some god-awful hour in the early morning, there was a knock on the door. You had half a mind to ignore it in favor of collapsing into bed and sleeping, and half a mind to answer only so you could tell whoever it was to get lost.

You were not sure what you were expecting when you did end up opening the door, you were hardly awake enough to imagine much at all by this point, but it certainly wasn’t Connor.

 _Connor_ stands on your doorstep.

He looks identical to when you first met him two weeks ago. The staple Cyberlife jacket, the white dress shirt and charcoal tie, the dark jeans, even the stray piece of hair that fell to the side of his forehead, it was all the same. Eerily so. But… not quite as eerie as him knowing where you lived and… _dropping by_.

His expression is void of pleasantries. It was blank, _analyzing_ , but his eyes… As you gape up at him, your breath lodged in your throat, you find yourself suddenly _acutely_ pleased that looks alone could not kill.

There had been absolute radio-silence between you and Connor over the last two weeks, not a single word had passed your teeth or was transferred through your skin. It was what you expected considering what he is. What you hadn’t quite dared to expect, however, was fewer soul-wounds. Or rather, less brutal ones.

Whether you had actually gotten through to him -doubtful- or he simply desired to avoid you -far more likely-, didn’t particularly matter to you. In the end, the result was the same: two full weeks without any relatively vital injuries. It had been… nice. A relief you didn’t want to question.

Your first and only encounter proved what you had already gathered through your research when originally trying to track him down: that Connor had no limits when it came to his missions. That he has a body count and is not programmed to feel remorse. Or guilt. Or regret. That he detests, if such an emotion were possible for him, anything relating to sentimentality.

Despite this, and much to your dismay, he still intrigued you as much as he appalled you. But knowing what you did of him, any thought, any fleeting inclination to reach out, to understand, was nevertheless _burned._ The mere _idea_ of it was shoved down into the dark recesses of your mind, barricaded, and dutifully ignored. It was better that way. Soulmates you may be, but acquaintances you were not. You were content so long as you were no longer forced to frequent the hospital.

“Did you know that if the trajectory of the bullet that hit you had been eleven degrees to the left it would have vitally damaged one of my main biocomponents?” he asks, the edge to his voice sharper than any knife.

The greeting -or lack thereof- immediately erases your surprise, replacing it with an incredulousness that reaches your _bones._

What, so he was allowed to get shot and burned and broken and bruised until it was probably cheaper to be uploaded into a new body than be repaired, until you were littered with wounds and buried in debt, but you get _grazed_ by _one_ bullet and suddenly _you’re_ the problem?

Perhaps you should’ve seen something like this coming, you idly realize, considering how well he handled you falling down a goddamn flight of stairs _._ Perhaps you should learn to associate that warm, instantaneous surge of frustration with him alone, considering the feeling overwhelmed you whenever he opened that mouth of his.

“No, actually,” you retort, “I was a bit too busy getting _shot_.” Obviously, you’d known implicitly that he was okay since you weren’t dead, but the thought of how the bullet may have affected Connor hadn’t exactly crossed your mind. A graze had never stopped him in the past. “Why are you here?” 

“As I’ve already said, your injuries are highly inconveniencing and they have now disrupted my missions on multiple occasions,” he answers flatly. “That needs to change.”

The finality of his last few words sends a shiver of unease up your spine and your eyes narrow. However daunting the words may be, however, they failed to explain his presence. Sentimentality wasn’t an option and he wasn’t here to permanently end you for being a hindrance otherwise he would have done so already. If it was a hypocritical reproach he was seeking, it could be done far more easily, more quickly, through your skin.

“You will learn how to fight in order to prevent such instances in the future.”

It’s a simple statement that leaves no room for debate and it is said with a deadly serious expression, but that does little to wither the amusement suddenly working through your system.

Something between a scoff and a laugh pulls itself from your throat in disbelief. “You’re going to teach me how to fight?”

“At this rate, it will take even longer than I anticipated but yes,” he informs. Not waiting for an answer, for an affirmation, for anything or anyone, Connor pushes past you and marches directly inside your apartment.

You whirl around, already shouting, “what are you- I haven’t even agreed yet!”

Out in the world, in neutral territory, you had no problem confronting him. But here? In your own apartment? He looked so entirely out of place in the domestic environment, in anything, you guessed, that wasn’t a battlefield. It felt like an invasion, like a crossover between the sanctity of your home and- and _whatever_ he is. What little you _really_ know about him all boils down to the fact that he is a deadly weapon by design. Common sense is the sole thing keeping you from _attempting_ to force him out, you valued your life after all, but that does little to settle your rightful hostility.

“If you were opposed to the idea-” he begins, examining your apartment with a single, sweeping glance before turning towards you curtly, “-you would have tried to stop me from entering. You also do not have a choice in the matter. You _will_ learn.”

For the second time in the last minute and a half, you are left agape. Only this time it isn’t from surprise, but from indignance and the slightest bit of trepidation which you would never admit to in a million years. But mostly from irritation because… Because he wasn’t entirely wrong.

While you still didn’t particularly want him _here,_ the idea itself wasn’t bad. You were willing to do quite a bit to avoid needing as much medical assistance as you have since Connor was first created. So if learning appeased him, kept you from becoming gun fodder, then you weren’t exactly _unwilling._ You’d learned the basics of self-defense when you were younger and you still knew a couple of tricks, but tonight was evidence enough that a refresher wasn’t the _absolute_ worst idea in the world.

Knocking Connor on his ass was also the very first thing you wanted to do upon learning of his existence so there was that too.

But it didn’t make any sense.

“Why?” you ask, meeting his predatory gaze with a calculating stare of your own. “Why would _you_ teach me? If I’m _that much_ of a problem for you why not just kill either one of us? You’d get a new body, right? It’s not like-”

“Your death,” he interrupts crisply, something _awfully_ close to irritation gracing his sharp features, “would hinder my mission.”

The words make you freeze- freeze more rapidly and deeply than when you had a gun shoved in your face. More than when you stared down at your first gaping, bloody mess of a soul-wound in a stupor. More than when the idea of not having a soulmate had first seized you.

Because this was Connor, and somehow you were related to his mission.

A sickening silence ensues as your head spins trying to make sense of it, to connect the dots you couldn’t see, ones you didn’t even know existed until now.

“What’s your mission?” you ask, suddenly wary, suddenly unsure of your own footing.

Connor doesn’t deign to give you an answer.

-

“This is hardly fair, you can’t even _feel_ pain.”

“How unfortunate. Now, attempt to punch me.”

“I _really_ don’t want a black eye. They’re kind of a bitch to deal with in case you didn’t know.”

“ _You won’t get one_.”

Connor only stands an arm’s length in front of you and yet you have to tilt your head up to hold his eyes- the eyes that are currently staring condescendingly down at you. He raises his dark eyebrows tauntingly at your hesitancy, and the request for further elaboration dies on your lips.

It would _definitely_ be worth it, you decide, receiving any self-imposed soul-wounds so long as you got to punch that stupid, perfect face of his, to create some kind of change in his expression and across his skin.

Shifting your stance to align with the one he’d instructed you to stand in, the one he drilled into your brain, you form a fist with your hand and aim for the spot between his eye and nose. 

Your knuckles never connect.

Before your fist comes remotely close to making contact, Connor’s already blocked the move, taken a step towards you, and slammed the palm of his hand against your non-leading shoulder.

The hard flooring does nothing to soften your landing and only serves to knock the air from your lungs. Pain radiates through your shoulder, the one you landed on, and a wheezing cough escapes you before you’re able to regain enough breath to properly groan.

“It’s bold, unlikely, and entirely premature of you to assume your hits will land,” he intones.

Connor towers above where you lie, and, glaring up at him, the inside of your cheek stings from the force your teeth exert in an effort to prevent yourself from saying anything you would regret.

In this precise moment you decide to stop caring altogether about what wounds, soul or otherwise, you might receive through training with him. The cold expression which seemed to be a staple of his, a fixed permanent of all that is Connor, was possibly the most irritating thing you’d ever encountered in your entire life, and you decide that you _would_ wipe it off his face if it was the last thing you do.

-

Connor catches your leg, abruptly stopping the roundhouse kick by wrapping an arm around your calf and securing it against his side, locking you in place.

“You are still leading with your leg. There needs to-”

“Be a straight line from shoulder to knee, _I know_ ,” you drone, rolling your eyes at him.

You wishedyou were performing the steps “ _incorrectly_ ” only to pester him, to ire him for your own amusement, but that constant feeling in your chest, that _need_ to one-up him, remained as strong as ever. Though, his opinion of human ability was already so incredibly low that you doubted there was much you _could_ do to lower it further -not that the thought hadn’t crossed your mind a couple dozen times-. 

He’d gone over the procedure again and again by this point, and you could recite the clipped lecture word for word, perform the steps exactly as dictated, entirely certain you were doing so correctly. But, unsurprisingly, it never seemed to quite meet his standards.

You attempt to pull back your leg so you could try the move again, _or maybe stand on two feet while he lectures you_ , but Connor holds on, his fingers digging into your skin.

“If you know then why aren’t you doing it?”

Wrestling back a scoff, you use your shin to push off against his side before yanking your leg out of his grip. It was, you learned, the best way to get out of the hold he had on you… Except Connor lets go just as you push off.

The unexpected lack of resistance sends you flying, but his hand wraps around your brachium just before you hit the ground.

But he doesn’t pull you up.

He keeps you there, hanging awkwardly above the floor as his gaze digs into your own as if to hollow you from the inside out.

“Keep a straight line. From your shoulder. To your knee.”

-

“Do you know what happened to him?”

“I’m not here to answer your questions, however vague.”

“ _So_..?” you prod, throwing another few punches at Connor in quick succession. His words had been a dismissal, sure, but they were also all the confirmation you needed. Lines were easy to read between after all, and the things he _doesn’t_ say are becoming more apparent the more time you spend with him.

You followed up with the police to see if they had had any luck catching the guy who shot you, who tried to mug you, but they had lost him entirely. The police said he must’ve gone underground “ _or something_ ” because there wasn’t any trace of him after that night. 

Connor wasn’t the police, but if anyone knew or could find information about some random mugger it would be him.

He blocks your strikes with ease while answering blankly, “he’s no longer a concern.”

You pause mid-motion, brows scrunching up in confusion. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

Taking advantage of the opportunity you inadvertently provided, Connor seizes your still wrists and leans down, towards you, so that his words are impossible to miss. “Through you, he damaged me. _He is no longer a concern_.”

Something dark flashes across his eyes, something that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on edge, something that makes your hackles rise and a voice appear in the quiet recesses of your mind ordering you to _run._ It is only visible for half a second before it vanishes from his dark brown eyes, but it was long enough for you to realize that you had been wrong before. Looks most certainly could kill.

The words -because it had to be the words, and not his sudden unexpected proximity or the intensity he seemed to emit in _waves-_ sends a sliver of ice down your spine and a critical awareness of your surroundings, of yourself, of every inch of him, racing through your brain.

You do not flinch under Connor’s scrutiny, instead remembering the man who shot you and the lengths he was willing to go to, the stitches you were forced to receive.

“ _Good._ ”

-

Grabbing your outstretched arm, Connor pulls and spins in one swift motion until he has you in a headlock. Not wasting a single precious moment of time, you shift to the side, behind him, and place your foot behind his. Then you simply grab onto the hard plains that are his torso and _tug._ Gravity does the rest.

Connor’s arm leaves your throat to brace for the impact and you twist to the side the second you’re free. You keep twisting as you fall, and rolling once you hit the ground, until all your limbs are successfully untangled from his and you come to a stop a few feet away.

It was a perfect recreation of the maneuver and a smug, satisfied smirk lines your face as you shift onto your knees. But the self-indulgent reverie is incredibly short-lived. A second later, before you’re able to congratulate yourself, throw a jibe at Connor, or even stand up, he’s on you again.

He knocks you off balance, onto your back, and follows your descent until he’s hovering above you with a leg on either side. Too surprised to do much of anything, you end up doing nothing at all in the split second it takes for him to catch your arms and pin them to the ground beside your head.

His expression is a blank mask which borders on sharp -and it’s suddenly all too close- but Connor remains silent, his arched brow saying what his mouth currently isn’t. A wordless reminder of the rules he instilled in your mind. 

_Never allow yourself to be distracted._

_Do not_ presume _your opponents to be incapacitated._

_Never let your guard down._

_Do not stop fighting until your opponents_ are _wholly incapacitated or dead._

You know the words. You know what he wants you to remember, but the actual thoughts which race through your brain just _slightly_ too fast to be caught and cast out are of a completely different sort. They’re of that awareness which seemed to pop up, out of nowhere, at the most inopportune times. Of the thin layer of perspiration that covers you. Of Connor looming above, practically straddling you. Of the low electrical current running through your body and the places where your skin seemed to burn under his touch. Of the vicious whirlwind of a storm that is always -or did it just appear?- raging in his eyes.

You’re pinned down by a brutal, relentless machine, rejecting every single thought and feeling coursing through you, and all you allow yourself to do- all you _can_ do, is laugh.

“You couldn’t even let me have that, could you?”

-

“ _What?_ ”

“You are sleep-deprived.”

“Yeah, _no shit,_ Sherlock. I told you I had to pull an all-nighter.”

“You are too inefficient while in this state. Go.”

-

“Do your employers know about these little side-trips of yours?”

From the other side of the room, Connor shoots you a narrow-eyed look. “You know I do not have employers. I have owners and I have missions.”

As terrible as they were, it wasn’t his words that struck you the most. It was the way Connor said them- like it was an indisputable fact, something not worth thinking twice about, something that should’ve been obvious. It threw you, created a feeling of dread in your stomach and resentment behind your ribs. Maybe it was because you hadn’t thought about the question in such terms before this point, but his answer, and the truth in it, appalled you with a striking intensity you weren’t prepared for.

“Dude, that’s fucked up,” you state, planting the water bottle in your hand none-too-gently back on the table.

To your surprise, Connor, for once, doesn’t comment. His gaze is calculating but whether he’s analyzing your words or their meaning you don’t particularly care to decipher. He wasn’t affronted by his own statement and its truth and that vexes you half as much as the injustice did.

You scoff. “Look, if you’re alive enough to have a soulmate, you’re alive enough be considered a person.”

The dry comment half spoken under your breath passes your lips without thought, without _consent_ , and you know, _immediately_ , that it was the wrong thing to say. That it was probably the worst thing you _could_ say.

The moment the words are vocalized, Connor’s entire frame stiffens and locks into place. The predatory glint was all at once back in his eyes, the one that hunted, the one that saw everything- that saw too much. The change is not drastic considering Connor was methodical in his every action but… But it is.

You hadn’t realized his shoulders were not as uncomfortably and unnervingly straight as physically possible until they suddenly were. You hadn’t realized that the tension in the air was no longer one of irritation or distaste until it was once again picking at your skin, that the atmosphere was begrudgingly passable as pleasant until it was once again hostile.

Just as there existed the unspoken deal that both of you would restrict the number of vital injuries obtained, so that Connor could complete his missions uninterrupted and you stood a chance at not randomly bleeding out at school, a second deal also existed. Except it wasn’t quite a deal but rather a law. A law that stipulated the s-word was never to be uttered, the topic of soulmates never to be mentioned, and the fact that you two were soulmates entirely, thoroughly, and wholly dismissed and disregarded without exception.

“We might be… _connected_ -” he snarls, practically spitting the word “-in some meaningless way but if you are clinging on to some foolish human illusion then I suggest you dispose of it immediately.”

Once, the dark look he was giving you, the one he wore so well, and the cutting sharpness of his voice, both tells and promises of a lack of mercy, would have stilled you. Once, his detachment that was so entirely and unavoidably inhuman, a reminder of the machine that he is, would have given you pause, made your muscles falter and your resolve waver.

But Connor had since bled before your eyes. _You_ had since made him bleed, bruise for but a fraction of a second before his cooled, synthetic skin repaired itself. You had experienced his every injury for yourself. Connor was ruthless, preeminent, that much was a given. He was calculating and methodical and shrewd and without one single line of pity written into his code. He didn’t have a heart, literally and figuratively. He was the perfect machine. But that’s all he was. After all, those all-powerful beings couldn’t bleed.

And you’re angry now. So instantaneously and extraordinarily angry that you refuse to look at the feeling too closely, preferring the simmering blood in your veins over- over whatever else lurked there. Over what you don’t want to admit, let alone _acknowledge_ the existence of. 

No, anger was far better; rage was safer.

“Believe me,” you snarl right back, baring your teeth at the living weapon that he is. “I disposed of that before I even metyou.”

It was true.

The words _are_ true.

You know they are, there was no other option. They _have_ to be true.

But they leave a bitter taste on your tongue regardless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took some liberties with this one so I’m a mix of ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) and ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ because Idk how it turned out but it was surprisingly fun to write so… hope you liked it! This was also supposed to be a quick little montage squished between two other scenes but it turned into its own part.
> 
> Let me know what you thought?


	4. Chapter 4

_“We might be… connected-” he snarls, practically spitting the word “-in some meaningless way but if you are clinging on to some foolish human illusion then I suggest you dispose of it immediately.”_

_“Believe me,” you snarl right back, baring your teeth at the living weapon that he is. “I disposed of that before I even met you.”_

_It was true._

_The words_ are _true._

 _You know they are, there was no other option. They_ have _to be true._

_But they leave a bitter taste on your tongue regardless._

_-_

_Eight Weeks later~_

You were bad with flowers.

The obvious ones, the classics, you knew of course. That was how you knew there were two small sunflowers mixed into the bouquet you cradled in one arm while you used the other to unlock the door to your apartment. The names of every other flower in the bouquet were unknown to you though. Familiar, but unknown.

No one had given you flowers before. It was… a nice sentiment, you supposed.

The lock opens with a slight click and you slip inside. Closing the door behind you, you kick off your shoes as you walk through the small entryway, hitting the light switch with your elbow as you pass it. Pale white light immediately floods the room, illuminating everything within its reach- including the intruder sitting at your kitchen table.

You practically jump out of your skin at the sight, a short, unavoidable shriek of surprise escaping your throat.

The keyring you had looped a finger through keep the keys from falling out of your grasp, but the flowers you were holding were not so lucky. They land on the floor not far from your feet.

“ _Jesus fuckin-_ What the _hell_ are doing _here_?” you ask shrilly, incredulously, as you glare daggers. “Did you- did you _break in_?”

The urge to place a hand over your chest in a useless attempt to still your unhealthily racing heart is strong, but you refuse to provide him with that kind of outward reaction.

Even if he could probably tell anyway.

Connor says nothing at all, his eyes raking over you in a way which meant he was analyzing every inch in detail. You had not forgotten about that penetrating gaze of his, but the memory of its intensity had certainly mellowed with time.

As comfortable as you had once become with him, you never quite grew accustomed to seeing him in your home. He was all sharp angles and cutting words, a looming presence that outsized even his imposing form, an energy that demanded acknowledgment. He didn’t _fit_ here, in your apartment that was meant to be a sanctuary. 

And two long months certainly hadn’t helped.

“Nothing was broken.”

Your mouth opens but no sound comes out, not the sharp comment on your tongue or the demand for an explanation which was racing through your brain. All you can do is gape at him, stare blankly at the face that had seared itself into your mind’s eye so long ago-

And then you snap your jaw shut and squeeze your eyes closed.

Wrong.

Wrong.

Wrong.

This was _wrong_.

He _left._

He was _gone._

He shouldn’t be _here_ \- shouldn’t be sitting in your apartment in the fucking dark just _waiting_.

“What are you doing here?” you ask shortly, drawing on every single reserve of patience you possessed.

“Your training,” he states, as though it were obvious. As though it was still normal. As though he hadn’t just shown up after disappearing without a _word_ for _two months_. As though- “Did you expect it to stop?”

After the _incident with the s-word_ Connor had vanished. Entirely. There was no trace of him. It was like he had never been around in the first place, like you had never actually met him. It was almost like he never existed. The only tangible evidence he left behind were the faint marks on your arm from the words he carved so long ago and the similarly fading scars from your soul-wounds.

After the first few weeks you simply assumed he was done with you, that you had pushed him over the edge with an accidental comment and he deemed you competent enough of a fighter for his job to be done.

So, yes.

Yes, you absolutely did expect it to stop.

You didn’t expect to see him again. Ever.

Without a word, you turn away from him to toss your keys on the kitchen counter- a small action to buy some time to collect yourself, to grab hold of the words on your tongue that are just _burning_ to be unleashed and rip into him. Next is your bag. Then your jacket. Then, slowly, you reach down to grab the bouquet. It joins the rest of your things all too quickly and you end up staring at the vast array of nameless, colored flora as you brace your palms against the smooth surface of the counter.

You can’t bring yourself to look at _him._

“That’s it?” you ask, voice dangerously calm. “That’s all the explanation you’re going to give?”

“Is there a different explanation you would prefer?”

You inhale slowly, taking in a deep breath to soothe your raging emotions, to calm down. But when you exhale a few moments later you feel exactly the same. Seething.

“Get out.”

Silence. Your order is met with silence. The chair Connor is sitting in doesn’t scrape along the floor, there is no shuffling of fabric as he stands. There are no retreating footsteps or departing words- _no_. No, never that.

Snapping your head towards him, your gaze bores into his unmoving form.

“Connor. _Get. Out._ ” The words are clipped but shaking with intensity and barely suppressed emotion.

He stands, and for one heartbeat you actually think he’ll listen to you, but the flickering moment of hope quickly passes. Instead of leaving, instead of moving away from you and leaving your sight, he approaches you with slow, steady steps and narrowing eyes.

“Why?”

“Because I said so,” you snap, straightening your spine and turning to face him head-on.

 _Because you can’t just walk in and out of my life with zero explanation whenever you so please,_ your brain unhelpfully supplies.

People walked in and out on each other all the time, you knew that all too thoroughly to expect any differently than transience. But for the few that stayed… You clung to them with unyielding, sharp claws. Once someone passed all the tests and were eventually allowed entry to your heart, you were loyal to them- perhaps even loyal to a fault. Maybe it was a natural response to existing without a soulmate for the grand majority of your life, to having people run from you when they discovered that particular condition of yours.

The problem was that you never _allowed_ Connor in. It hadn’t been a choice; you had no say in the matter.

In the beginning, Connor teaching you how to fight was just that: Connor teaching you how to fight. Nothing more, nothing less. The only expectations you had of him were to get injured less, and even that you only wanted for purely selfish reasons. But no matter how guarded your heart was, no matter the number of locks you placed over it, the walls you built around it, or the safe you buried it in, it was soft. Sharp, undoubtedly sharp like a razor blade that never dulled, but soft. It had grown attached to Connor -the intelligent, irritating, inconsiderate, _asshole_ of an android that he is- without even realizing. 

He slipped right past your defenses like the perfect machine he is. The few, near-nonexistent glimpses of dry, deadpan humor he voiced became a gift to bear witness to; the things he made you question were as beneficial to you as they were unnerving; his drive became almost inspiring. He became part of your routine. His relentlessness in all that he did became a comforting thought because you and your foolish, _foolish_ heart naively assumed it meant he would stick around with same fervor.

Then he disappeared.

You weren’t as surprised as you thought you would be, but it hurt more than you thought it would. And for that fact alone you hated him.

You hated that he had that kind of power over you- hated that, to wound you, he needn’t do it physically or even mentally. All he had to was leave and your heart would slowly bleed out.

It was ridiculous and absurd and you _hated_ it. 

But you lived.

Connor leaving was far from the end of the world. You moved on- even though there was technically nothing to move on _from._ Hell, you even accepted when a cute acquaintance asked you out. Sure, the date from which you were returning might not have been the most _riveting_ experience in the world _,_ but it was normal. Safe. _Easy_. It was everything you should want.

“You should put those in water if you wish to prolong their decay.”

Your brows furrow at the strange words and it takes you a few moments of staring up into his calculating eyes in mystification before they begin to make sense. Then the only movement in the room- in the whole apartment is your eyes darting to flowers beside you.

It sounded like a surface-level suggestion, something that could easily pass as meaningless and be dismissed as advice. But his eyes are locked on yours and it feels like a test. Like a game.

Too bad you had no intention on playing.

“You know where the door is.”

Something ticks in his jaw at your response, but Connor does not move even an inch towards the exit.

“Come with me.” He doesn’t exactly phrase it as a question.

“And _why_ would I that?” you snap.

Connor opens his mouth to answer but closes it just as quickly, thinking better of whatever he intended on saying, and the strange action immediately gives you pause.

“Trust me.”

It’s all he says, and the statement- request- _whatever_ it is, is nearly as amusing as it is shocking.

The cynical, rational part of you knows it could easily just be an attempt to get you to do what he wants, knows that it is more likely for him to fake hesitancy than to actually _be_ hesitant.

You know you have few concrete reasons to trust him.

But you do.

For some strange reason, let the universe take pity on you, you _do_ trust him.

Even though you hate it.

-

Connor had been adamant about you first learning how to fight without any weapons, that you,your body alone, should be the only weapon truly necessary to win a fight. Everything else was just an extension. But apparently in his absence he had decided you were competent enough without a weapon to finally have one.

It took less time than you imagined to become accustomed with the handgun Connor handed you, even he seemed the slightest bit surprised by your quick progress and good aim. In fact, he nearly seemed pleased.

It was nice to shoot something, almost cathartic, but it intrigued you for all of one minute and a half before it simply became another task to accomplish. Another action to perform. Another skill to master. Even as Connor moved the target progressively farther and farther back at the deserted shooting range, your brain went on autopilot.

Now, staring at the bullet-ridden target at the other end of the long, long room, you pause, failing to unload what is left of what had to be the third clip.

“To fire, you _will_ need to pull the trigger.”

The words are muffled due to the noise-canceling headphones you’re wearing, but Connor’s flat delivery seems to transcend even high-quality insulation.

Sighing, you switch on the safety, put down the gun, and slip off your headphones. Turning towards Connor who stands by your side, you give him a long look with furrowed brows.

“What are we doing here, Connor? Really?”

He looks the same as he always did, the same as when you first met. Perfectly identical and unchanged by time, by circumstance, and he arcs a brow at your question. “I assumed that much would be obvious to you.”

Rolling your eyes, you shift your weight from one leg to the other. “There’s no reason I need to know how to shoot someone,” you try again. “I don’t even own a gun.”

“Incorrect,” he states, nodding to the gun you had just put down. “That one is yours.”

Out of pure annoyance, you spare a quick glance at the weapon of cold black metal but all you see are flowers. Shaking your head, you grit your teeth and look back at Connor with steel in your eyes. “Alright, let me rephrase. I don’t _want_ to own one.”

“Then it’s good that I wasn’t asking,” he counters easily.

From the look in his eyes, you know that he knows exactly what you’re really asking and is _choosing_ to avoid the question entirely. And as you stare up at that stupid, handsome face of his, you know he always will. He would rather waste away and rust on the very spot he stands before answering- before he even _acknowledged_ the obvious: that the gun was overkill. That there was _something_ between the two of you _regardless_ of whether either of you wanted it to exist- something that made the air feel heavy and the space between you seem like nothing and miles all at once. Something that made your heartbeat unsteady and your fingers fidget with nerves.

Clenching your jaw, you grab your jacket from the neighboring cubicle and shrug it on. As you pass Connor on your way to the exit, however, his hand darts out and catches your elbow in a tight grip.

“If you insist on leaving then at least take the gun,” he orders.

“For _what?”_ you challenge, snapping- cracking- _breaking_ as you rip your arm out of his grasp, _months_ of frustration and budding hate suddenly springing forth. “I’m not on speaking terms with anyone dangerous enough to warrant me carrying a _gun_ around. For fuck’s sake, _you_ are the most dangerous person I know! You said you were only doing this because of how my death would _somehow_ affect your mission. Well, I _nearly_ got mugged. _Once!_ I don’t need to know how to blow someone’s brains out or which muscles are best to damage to _immobilize_ someone, and yet I know anyway! Your task is complete. You’re done. Finished! And if I was in such _dire need_ of tutelage thenyou wouldn’t have left! So why. Are. We. _Here_?”

Your chest is rapidly rising and falling by the time you complete your outburst, your breath coming in short, angry segments. Missing nothing, Connor’s cold, calculating gaze tracks your every breath and flickers across your face before holding the raging look in your eyes.

“We are here because you haven’t learned everything. So I suggest you stop looking to aggravate me into confessing feelings I don’t have and start learning,” he states, irritation seeping into his voice. 

His eyes narrow at the scoff that leaves your throat. Leaning forward so that he is the only thing filling your vision, he _growls_ , enunciating every syllable unmistakably clearly, “I am a _machine,_ Y/N. I don’t _care._ I certainly don’t care about _you.”_

The words are daggers of ice made verbal, perfectly aimed and deftly placed. Whatever you had accidentally given away and whatever he had been able to deduce from it, he had found a chink in your armor, a space between the plates that led straight to your heart, straight to the weakness you cursed the second you discovered it.

But you don’t give yourself the chance to be wounded. Not yet.

Mirroring his actions and then some, you lean towards him until there is only a hair’s breadth between his chest and yours, until your faces are only a few inches apart. Your lips part as though you are about to close the miniscule amount of space which remains and kiss him, but you don’t spare his lips a single glance. The details that make up his face, every freckle and shade, even the flickering yellow circle at his temple… you don’t admire any of it. Your defiant, challenging eyes are solely focused on his, locked on target and _burning_ everything they land on.

“ _Liar._ ”

You speak the word so softly it’s nearly a whisper, so softly you essentially breathe it onto his lips. 

It may have only been a single word, but its truth was undeniable.

Because Connor is not pulling away.

He didn’t pull away when you pushed yourself into his personal space, nearly against him.

He didn’t pull away when, because of the proximity, your breath had no other option but to fan across his skin.

And he is still not pulling away even after you named him.

“What am I to you?” you ask quietly, incredulously.

You’re close to him, probably too close, and certainly close enough to see the exact moment something snaps behind his eyes. 

“You are a _virus,_ ” he snarls.

There is barely any space between you and yet Connor takes a step forward, causing you to step backward in order to keep from falling over. And suddenly you’re moving in tandem, step for step and never far apart.

“I can’t thinkcorrectly around you,” he continues, “around the _thought_ of you. You impede my rationale and functioning. You _influence_ my actions. Even when I am as far from you as I can physically be, you create _errors_ in my programming. There are traces of you in my _firmware_ and I can’t get you _out._ ”

A lane divider presses into your back, immediately halting your retreat, and Connor closes what distance remains until he is as close to you as he was moments ago.

Only now his LED is a blaring _blood red_.

“You compromise me,” he breathes, staring down at you as if to figure out how such a thing could be possible. As if you held the answers- as if he could figure them out if he just _looked_ hard enough, as if they were tangible things he could analyze before disposing of. 

“What do you want from me, virus?”

His brows are furrowed and his eyes are a violent, raging storm. He looks entirely merciless but his words sound strangled. Imploring. In desperate need of an answer.

And you’re drawing blanks.

You can feel your racing heart in your chest and in your fingers, and all you are doing is standing still, staring back at him with wide eyes.

White noise runs through your mind. You have no idea how to respond- no idea what to _think_. The control you had over the situation, over yourself and your emotions and your mind, it was all lost. _Gone_. It shifted to his side of the equation the _second_ he unknowingly decided to prove you wrong. 

You never expected to get this far- never thought this was a place you could _get to_. 

You never expected him to admit having a weakness, never imagined he would claim it to be you. You couldn’t even- you had a hard enough time admitting how he got under your skin even to yourself.

You figured he was lying about not caring, but calling him out on it had still felt like a shot in the dark, a half bluff just to _see,_ to test him and his boundaries.

Well, it worked. 

It also backfired. Epically.

“The truth,” you answer, the levelness of your voice having disappeared along with your control.

Because that is what you wanted, right? Honesty? 

You just wanted answers, not more questions- questions he seems to think you have the answers to.

“Is that all?” he asks, so quietly, so _softly_ that goosebumps rise up across your skin. Whatever frustration had been in his eyes, whatever disdain… It was gone now, replaced by something equally as intense. Something that made your mind go blank all over again and for entirely different reasons.

And the only clear, discernable thing in all that static blankness which was your mind, was that no, no it wasn’t all you wanted.

Not at all.

_Not by a long shot._

You wanted-

“Hey, is everything alright here?”

The strange, rough voice startles you, nearly makes you flinch, but Connor doesn’t so much as blink at the intrusive sound. He doesn’t look away from you at all, not even to acknowledge the approaching person.

But you do.

“Yeah,” you answer, clearing your throat as you put a reasonable amount of distance between you and Connor. A normal amount. A professional amount. “Yeah, everything is fine. Thanks.”

You don’t know who the man is, don’t even know when he came into the room since the entire building had been empty save for the android receptionist and safety instructor who had first greeted you, but he doesn’t look happy. Though, perhaps it would have been slightly more concerning _had_ he looked happy considering he’s at a shooting range after midnight and just walked in on… something.

He had short dark hair and a scar on his nose, and his narrowed eyes darted between you and Connor. He also looks entirely unconvinced by your words, not that you particularly care.

That is, you don’t particularly care until you catch sight of the flash of gold- a badge at his waist.

He opens his mouth but you interrupt him before he gets the chance to say anything- _or ask anything._

“I was just finishing up here,” you explain, immediately slapping a friendly smile on your face. The last thing you wanted to do was explain your… _complicated_ situation to a cop, and it _was_ technically the truth after all. You _had_ intended on leaving.

You spare a glance at Connor but he is no longer looking at you. He’s staring down the cop, expression wiped clean of all the emotion it had shown not moments before. If the absolute flatness of his expression and his narrowed eyes are anything to go by, he had already figured out who the new guy is. So, you don’t bother subtly explaining your actions to him, or saying anything at all, as you stroll solitarily towards the exit.

The cop tries to say something to you as you pass him, but the door has already closed behind you before he even finishes his sentence.

In your hurry to leave -to avoid an awkward conversation with a cop of course, not to seek space to figure out what the _hell_ had just happened with Connor and how you felt about it- you had forgotten all about the gun.

Which was a mistake, as it turns out.

You really should have taken it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We be taking a sharp left turn into angsty plot, bois. This is not a happy part. Like… at all. This is where most of the warning tags come it. If you haven’t had the best time reading the earlier parts then this is definitely not the part/story for you. With that being said, I swear there is a point to all this, obviously it’s not just for the angst. (Also, this is a ruthless! fic, guys. It had to get kinda dark at some point).

They came out of nowhere.

It’s not like you weren’t being vigilant about your surroundings on your way home, _you were._ Even _if_ your mind was a million miles away, back in the shooting range with a memory of Connor, you _were_ still vigilant. It was simply, wholly dark outside, and they blended into the shadows so, so well.

It was too fast- too much of a blur of fists and knees and weapons. You couldn’t even get a count on them- all you could do was react to the next immediate threat to the best of your abilities. Still, you managed to incapacitate some of them and shoot a few more with one of their own guns.

However, it didn’t particularly matter how well you fought or how fast you ran. Martial arts and speed alone could not block an unseen bullet already fired.

You wished you could say that you did not feel it, that you blocked out the pain like the last time you were shot. But unlike the last time, the bullet didn’t merely _graze_ you.

You wished you could say that it didn’t hinder your progress, that it didn’t slow you down. But that would be a lie. The bullet embedded itself deep into your thigh and you _felt it._ You stumbled.

It didn’t matter that you regained your footing moments later, that you kept _trying-_ kept _going_ despite being shot _._ Those few, precious moments of distraction were all it took for something unnoticed to come crashing down against the side of your skull

You didn’t feel or see anything at all after that.

-

When unconsciousness finally slithered away at the point of a knife carving down the length of your arm and reality finally bombarded you, everything felt like a fever dream. Except that when you finally woke, you woke into the nightmare of reality and not to the safety of your bed.

The pounding in your head demanded attention and relentlessly attempted to draw you back into unconsciousness, however. You could hardly keep your eyes open. All you saw were dark, blurry flashes like from an old piece of film with scenes missing. You heard voices- loud, _too_ loud. _Shrill_. Questions. There were questions too, but you couldn’t place meaning to the words you heard, couldn’t make them _register_.

At some point, someone must have become tired with your induced drowsiness because you were doused with what felt like an entire swimming pool’s worth of cold water.

The shock was enough to fully rouse you.

You almost wished it didn’t.

-

There was a tight, makeshift bandage wrapped over the bullet hole in your thigh. When exactly someone used a ripped-up piece of fabric to keep you from bleeding out, however, you still weren’t quite sure. It wasn’t pretty and it was far from an actual fix, but it served its purpose well enough.

It also provided all the information you needed.

They did not want to risk you bleeding out in the brightly lit, almost empty room they were keeping you in. No, they needed you _alive._

Though, on the other hand, they were not particularly unwilling to push at that boundary.

“I hope you know this isn’t personal.”

“Oh, that makes me feel _so_ much better,” you drawl, “ _thanks._ ”

The woman standing directly in front of you and far too close does not laugh at the dry comment. Her name is Myra, you learned. At first you had thought she was in charge of… _whatever_ this is, but after overhearing a particularly vicious argument you knew that to be an erroneous assumption. At least, in the larger scheme of things; she still seemed to be high enough on the chain of command for the guy she was arguing with to back down the moment she threatened him.

No… She most certainly does not laugh at your comment, but her chapped lips do pull up into an amused smirk.

Then she drives the knife into you, right through the skin just below your sternum.

Right where a thirium pump would be.

The incision is only an inch or two; it’s not enough to kill you and you assume it is not enough to kill Connor either. It is merely a warning given by an impatient, knife-happy individual pointing out the fact that she could, in fact, kill you and Connor. And though death for him would only be a temporary inconvenience, you would not be so lucky

You refuse to air the sounds of pain clawing at your throat to be released- refuse to let Myra and the guard just outside the room bear witness to them. You refuse to give them anything more than they already have. So you keep it all locked behind your teeth, trapped in your mouth, and the muscles in your jaw had long since gone numb from being clenched so painfully tight.

Your wrists are handcuffed behind you and the sharp metal edges dig into the now sore skin. Your legs strain against their bindings as well, but your jeans manage to provide some defense against the chaffing. The back of the chair you’re on -that is, forcibly attached to- carves into your spine from the pressure of you doing your damndest to stay still, to stay silent.

You force your attention elsewhere, away from Myra and the wound she is inflicting. Focusing instead on the sound of people marching around on the floor above, attempting to count each set of the multitude of steps you can hear; on the guard, standing just outside the only exit to this locked room, coughing; on the smell of bleach which lingered in the otherwise relatively unconcerning room.

“In all fairness,” Myra says, pulling away from you with a now bloodied knife in hand, “we thought he would’ve shown up by now.”

Some of the tension had left your muscles when she pulled out the knife, but too much of it still remains.

If Myra dared to touch your skin with her own hand she would’ve been able to feel it- the tension. The waiting energy in your muscles. The strain. The pain. The _rage._ The springs ready to _fucking_ snap. There is a chance she could even see it too, note your white-knuckled fists and the tremor in your legs, but you were not particularly worried about that possibility. In order for her to notice, she would have to look at you as something more than someone else’s soulmate and a means to an end.

It was odd, really. They knew enough about you to know that Connor had visited you regularly for a time and that he even came back after a long absence. They knew enough to know that you were soulmates, and yet…

And yet they think nothing of you. They restrained you, posted one rude, _noisy_ guard outside the room, assigned an overly keen torturer and called it day.

Myra must have been told about the fight you put up when they attacked you, she must know _something_ of what you are capable of, but she still seems to think that you are resigned to your fate, that you’re too physically drained from blood loss to pose much of a threat. Even if _she_ doesn’t know, however, there are others here who do. 

Others who have raised a hand to you and who had a hand in taking you in. 

Others who you have marked and have no intention of forgetting.

As you glare at the blank, beige wall in front of you, you feel the blood flowing from the wound in your chest- feel it soaking your shirt and rolling down your skin before reaching the top of your jeans.

“I told you he wouldn’t,” you reply.

“Such a lack of faith in your own soulmate,” Myra chastises, an amused lilt to her voice.

The scoff that leaves your throat, as painful as it feels leaving your chest, is unavoidable. “Obviously you haven’t met him.”

Connor said you were a part of his mission. That was the reason behind all your training, because of how your death would hinder it. If you really are a part of his mission then there is zero doubt in your mind that Connor would come for you, that it was only a matter of time before anyone who threatened your welfare would be _begging_ for a quick death. However, the more you eavesdropped, the more you learned about what Connor had been doing with regard to his mission and the less you think you actually have _anything_ to do with it.

Regardless, if there is any chance your death wouldn’t wholly decimate his mission, if there is _any_ way he could continue despite your demise… then he might just do it. He thought of you as his weakness anyway, as someone who compromised him. Perhaps he thought it would be best to be rid of you after all, to cut his losses.

You want to count on him. You want to feel that burning hope of knowing he would get you out of this mess, of knowing that at least one person was on your side, but it is a luxury you do not allow yourself to believe. 

-

You flinch.

You can’t help it, it’s a natural response- one you couldn’t stifle. It’s quite literally a knee-jerk reaction to the fingers prodding at the gunshot wound on your thigh.

So yes, you flinch… And surprisingly enough the calloused hands quickly leave your skin and the new dressing on your leg.

“The bleeding seems to have slowed down,” the man says. It almost sounds like an apology.

It had been him, apparently, who bothered to keep you from bleeding out while unconscious and who more recently slowed the blood streaming from your chest courtesy of Myra. You never got his name, but his dark blonde hair and the shape of his face were similar enough to Myra’s that they must be related -siblings, you assume-.

You allow a wince to sneak up onto your features, a perfectly visible tell. “Does it matter?” you ask with a wavering voice. “You’re going to kill me even _if_ Connor gives you the information you want, aren’t you?”

There is pity in his eyes when he meets your fear-filled gaze, but he looks away soon enough. It’s hard to hold the gaze of those innocents whom you’ve put on death row, you suppose.

“You don’t understand,” he dismisses with a shake of his head. Turning away from you, he walks over to the corner of the room and throws your old, bloodied bandages onto the table there with slightly more force than necessary. “Connor has destroyed almost a _third_ of this organization in only a couple of weeks _and_ he has information we need. The boss told us to do something about it and we are. Soulmates… they can be… _useful_.”

It sounded like he was bitterly reading from a bad brochure, dutifully reciting the words of a sermon despite his wavering belief, and you barely manage to withhold your scoff.

“An international organization that deals in arms and narcotics?” you challenge, raising your brows at him.

It’s a guess, one you fixed together from the bits and pieces of information flowing into the room from the crack beneath the door and from the vent which connected this room to the ones above and beside it. You vaguely remember hearing about some “new” player in the black market on news too; it was not far-fetched to put two and two together.

Your assumption is a correct one too, if the man’s reaction is anything to go by. His entire body snaps towards you at the words, his eyes narrowing.

“Look,” he says hesitantly, _warily,_ “you seem nice enough and I don’t exactly agree with all this, but-”

“Then _help_ me _._ ” 

The words are as quiet and imploring as you can stomach to utter, and they almost become lodged in your throat before you managed to force them out.

He doesn’t do you the disservice of pretending to think about your plea. “I can’t get you out of here. I wish I could help you, but I _can’t_.”

No… No, you thought not but it was worth a try.

Slapping on a dejected expression, you nod. “Could you at least tell me where I am?” you ask, a small, half-hearted smile twisting your lips. “If I’m going to die here at least tell me it’s not in some random addict’s basement.”

His gaze travels over you critically, and you don’t miss the way it lingers over your bonds- no doubt gauging the risks that telling you might bring. He must find everything in order- find your chances of survival absolutely dismal to nonexistent, you realize, when the relenting sigh disrupts his frown.

“You’re in an office building,” he admits. “Though we’ve… _remodeled_ it slightly to fit our purposes. That’s where you are.”

An office building… Not quite the amount or content of information you were fishing for, but you could work with it. You would have to.

The smile curving your lips is genuine this time, not forced, but you do ensure to replace your satisfaction with sadness. A sad, thankful smile. A resigned smile. That’s what you give him, and it is a smile he does not return before turning his back on you and exiting the room. When the door locks shut behind him, the sound of it seems to echo throughout the small space.

He departs just in time too.

You hear the approaching footsteps so you are not particularly surprised when Myra swings open the door no more than thirty seconds later, but you are disappointed. Disappointed that she couldn’t have waited just _one_ more minute- disappointed that you did not have enough time to-

“Connor’s taking too long.”

Well… yeah. Had you ever allowed yourself to believe he was going to make the deal in the first place, then you would’ve had to agree with her. He did seem to be taking his sweet time. 

The simple statement is the only explanation she gives you, however, as she sets her knife down on the table and approaches you with a determined stride and a grim expression.

-

When Myra leaves you, she leaves you with bruises blooming across the side of your face and more adorning your torso.

It’s inconsequential. 

Inconsequential just like all the other injuries they provided you with, from the initial shooting, to writing into your arm, to making incisions in your chest… Everything they did- everything _Myra_ did to you was solely meant to draw Connor out, to provoke _him_ into action.

Nothing she did was entirely incapacitating for _you_ , and for that very simple fact she was a fool.

You would have to thank her for that at some point.

As soon as the door is locked behind her and her footsteps trail off into silence, you’re moving to the small extent that you can. Poking your handcuffed hands through the open back of your chair, you manage to spin your belt around until the metal buckle meets your fingers. As you undo the belt and slip the buckle between the parallel pieces of metal which make up the lower portions of the handcuffs you pray that it will be strong enough to suit your needs.

Then, you _twist._ You twist until you’ve pried open a large enough gap between the ridges of one of the cuffs that the strain is more than the rivet can take.

It breaks.

It _opens,_ and your wrist is free.

The busted metal is sharp enough to cut through the skin of your wrist and lower forearm, and it does, but it also manages to cut through the cord securing each of your ankles.

When you finally stand up, when you are finally _able_ to stand up, a groan manages to sneak past your lips. Whether it is one of satisfaction or pain, however, even you’re not entirely sure.

The muscles in your shoulders positively _ache_ when you roll them, protesting the now foreign feeling of movement after being locked in place for so long.

When you take a step towards the table in the corner of the room, when you put your weight on your bad leg, you whimper to stifle the curse tearing itself from your throat.

Breathing is a pain which inflicts yourbloody _and now_ bruised chest, it nudges your broken skin and presses against your tender ribs.

The throbbing in your head still remains, though it is more of an echo of discomfort which rings out with every unsubtle movement which occurs above your shoulders.

Your entire left arm _stings_ from the letters and numbers someone had carved into it, some meeting place for Connor, and your wrist is coated in blood which quickly trails down to reach your fingertips

And… And you push all of it, every single sensation you can feel, every single wound _begging_ for some form of notice, straight into the back of your mind. You lock it up in some distant, secluded area of your brain and _refuse_ to acknowledge it. You have no other option. For if you were to look too closely, if you were to _feel,_ then you wouldn’t bend under the weight of all the blood that coats you, you would _break._

If your body had its way, you would collapse to the floor and sleep for years as it slowly mended itself back together or decayed.And that is an option you absolutely do not have.

So you focus instead- concentrate on the half plan you shambled together.

Executing the plan- that’s all you can afford to think about: the next step and doing whatever you have to in order to reach it. Everything else is irrelevant. It can all be dealt with later- assuming you make it out of this hellhole alive.

Snatching the half-used, makeshift bandage Myra’s brother had left discarded on the table, you wrap it around your bleeding wrist. It works as many wonders as it had on your thigh, but at least it should slow the bleeding.

You make a mental note to always _, always_ carry lockpicks and, or, bobby pins in the future.

Myra had been so worked up when she left -dry comments could work absolute _wonders_ on an already frayed psyche _,_ you learned- that she too left without collecting her things. Just one thing, actually, the only thing she left.

The only thing she had set down before gearing up for a more hands-on approach to your skin.

Her knife.

If everyone in this organization is as forgetful as those two are, then it is no wonder Connor had so much success tearing it apart in so little time.

“Hey, I need some help in here!” you cry at the door- at your exit, as your _faltering_ voice breaks over the plea. “Please! I think I’m bleeding out, there’s- there’s just so much _blood_.”

There is shuffling on the other side, a vague shadow appearing in the crack underneath the door, and it opens just as you reach its threshold.

The guard does not have enough time to fight back- to fight _you_. He’s too late to stop the knife you have already driven between his ribs and into his heart. His reaction time is too slow and yours too fast- driven on by that primordial, guttural, animalistic instinct to _survive at whatever cost-_ to dig your claws into whatever scrap of life you can find within yourself and to hold on as though it is your last lifeline, the sole thing linking you to this uncaring, apathetic, chaotic _hell_ of a world. Because that is precisely what it is.

You are unsure if he is incapable of speaking, what with all the blood and the pain, or if he is simply too surprised to shout for help or curse you. Regardless, he says nothing, entirely silent save for his eyes which _scream_ everything he doesn’t say. At first it’s shock, surprise, but you watch as that gives way to something else- not realization which is quick and fleeting in all its flashing glory, but something simple. One simple emotion overpowering everything, flooding over from his eyes to contaminate his whole expression, his posture too, even as the life trickles out of him faster than he’s losing blood.

_Fear._

They were _so_ concerned with Connor- _so certain_ they could cut a fake deal with the killing machine who stood _above_ all of this earthly madness that they forgot all about the monster already in their midst.

The one they _dragged,_ unconscious and bleeding,into one of their bases of operations.

The one they had poked and prodded with sharp objects and refused to let lie.

The one of their own making.

For if they were so intent on meeting he who could pass as the deliverer of death, then you had no qualms about ensuring such a meeting; they sought a machine capable of monstrosity and you have no issue becoming that.

The oversight is a shamefully fatal error on their parts, really.

You have the knowledge necessary, the reflexes, Connor had ensured that much at least. Now all you have to do is put them to use.

The guard collapses to the ground with a soft thump and you follow him down, searching his pockets with utter detachment as the blood oozes from his chest. Finding his keys, you unlock the single, dangling handcuff left on your other wrist and let it fall to the ground with a clattering noise.

You grab his gun too, then you exit the room and close the door behind you.

You keep Myra’s knife.

There were no windows in the room which had been your cell, and as you quietly walk down the hallway you find that it’s windowless as well. Which means you’re likely underground. Though not many “ _office buildings”_ have a multitude of sub-levels, so you’re probably only one level below the surface.

It is surprisingly easy to find a staircase, but that is where your luck begins and so abruptly ends.

Just as you reach it, Myra comes rushing down the set of stairs with two others running directly behind her.

Neither of her two companions notice you before there are bullets in their chests, however, and Myra only has a few seconds in which utter shock etches itself into her every feature before you put a bullet in her head.

It was the quickest death you could give her, and you consider what thanks you owed to be paid.

Their drawn guns had scattered across the floor when they fell and you collect one, sticking the backup between the waistband of your jeans and the skin of your back, as you brush past them.

You’re already up the first flight of stairs before you realize that the ringing in your ears isn’t ringing at all. It’s not an echo of the shots you so recently fired, but the sound of shots _currently_ being fired. There’s shouting too, but the words are indistinguishable through the walls.

Whatever is going on above is a mystery to you, and though it sets your teeth on edge, you do not particularly mind it. Chaos might just be easier to pass through; a lovely distraction you may be able to take advantage of. You hope.

Exiting the stairwell, you run in the opposite direction of where you think the now quieted shots had first been fired. You do not stop running as you turn a corner, searching for a fire exit or at least a fucking _window_ \- 

And you run smack into the center of someone’s chest.

The nuzzle of the gun you hold is pressed up beneath the man’s chin before you can even blink, but a hand wraps around your wrist, twisting it to an odd angle before you’re able to pull the trigger.

You lunge with Myra’s knife in response- but he doesn’t stop the attack this time. You do.

Because you’ve blinked.

Just once.

And suddenly the face staring back at you is a familiar one.

It’s Connor’s.

And time stops.

Your brainstops.

Your _heart_ stops.

You know you can’t question it, his presence, you know you do not have the time. Not now. But your lethal surroundings fade into mere background noise at the sight of him, at the sight of the blue bruises littering the side of his face- a more healed mirror of your own. At the sight of his _almost_ disheveled hair. At the sight of his _eyes…_

His gaze rakes over your face, dissecting every single detail staining your bloody skin, before finally meeting and holding your eyes. There’s rage there, fury and wrath and fireitself which _burn_ so brightly it would have worried you had you not wished for its release- had you not felt the same fire inside of you. But there is something else there too, a mere _flash_ of something softer which doesn’t _fit_ with the rest of him.

It almost looks like relief.

There’s movement in the corner of your eye, over Connor’s shoulder, and the sight of a raising gun is the only thing capable of tearing your gaze away from him in this moment.

And in an instant you’re moving again, throwing the knife with your free hand since the other and the gun you first stole is still held captive by Connor.

You had been aiming for the man’s upper chest but you overcompensated for the stiffness in your muscles with excessive force, sending the knife higher than you intended. It lodges itself into his throat.

He immediately stumbles backwards, colliding with a wall before sliding to the ground, his weapon dropped and discarded as his hands fly to the wound.

When your gaze finds its way back to Connor, as it always inevitably does, you are met with a slightly arched eyebrow. You’re half tempted to classify his expression as surprise, since knife-throwing was not something Connor had shown you, but naturally you are not that lucky.

“Well done, now the enemy has a gun _and_ a knife to use against you.”

It is a reprimand soaked in bone-dry sarcasm and oddly enough it doesn’t even surprise you that it’s the first thing out of his mouth. Despite his tone, however, the mere sound of his voice is disconcertingly and disproportionally comforting. It wraps around you like a deadly assurance. It soothes you. 

Which means it’s _distracting._

You discard the feeling immediately, cast it away and lock it up alongside everything else you’re refusing to look at for the time being, saving for some other time in the distant future. So instead of soaking up whatever small comfort his mere presence provides, you focus on that bottomless well of _irritation_ he never fails to create within you.

“He’s _dead_ ,” you snap.

“ _Dying,_ ” Connor corrects without so much as a glance over his shoulder at the indeed, albeit rapidly, dying man. “And now you have no weapon.”

His face is a stern, blank mask, and it is an expression you match as you silently pull the second gun from your waistband and hold it up for his inspection.

His lips twitch. The hard set of his mouth curves upwards on one side to form something between a smirk and smile, but it is only there for a heartbeat before all trace of it is wiped from his face.

Releasing your wrist, Connor reaches into his jacket and pulls out another gun. _Your_ gun. The one he had given you back at the gun range- except now it has a silencer attached, just like the other one he holds.

“Do not forget it next time.”

Silently, you trade the second gun you stole for your own. Then, without another word spoken, the two of you make your way through the building.

The few people who find you, who confront you, are quickly disposed of and are not a threat for very long at all.

When you are half-way down yet another hallway, the door to the outside world within sight, someone comes barreling around the corner at full speed- only to stop short at the sight of you.

Connor’s gun is immediately up and locked on target, but you throw out your arm, placing a hand over his to lower his gun ever so slightly- to stop him from firing. Much to your surprise, it works.

Connor does not lower his gun entirely though, and neither do you. You both keep your weapons aimed and your eyes locked on Myra’s brother.

He isn’t stupid, the second he sees you and Connor he immediately throws up hands in that universal form of surrender, horror painted across his face.

“ _Please_ \- I tried to stop Myra,” he begs. “I tried to help you!”

His voice breaks over the words, it wavers just like yours did when you were strapped to a chair prodding for information under the ruse of aid. Except the fear in his voice is genuine and your voice no longer wavers, it is as steady as your grip on the gun you hold.

“How many others have there been?” you question. “How many others have been brought in to be used as leverage?”

“A- a lot, I don’t-”

“ _A number,_ ” you snap.

“T-too many to count,” he admits in a single breath. “I wanted to help but we-”

“Then you’ve already had too many chances.”

Your finger tightens around the trigger and a bullet silently exits the barrel of the gun less than a second later.

He may have given you a tidbit of information, may have felt guilty about your circumstances. He may even have truly wished that he could have changed things. But he didn’t, in fact, change anything at all. He didn’t so much as try. He remained neutral in the face of immorality and was thus part of the problem.

You can feel Connor’s heavy gaze on you but he makes no comment, neither of you do, you just keep moving.

When at last you are only a few feet from the door with a bright red exit sign hanging above it, Connor slows from his brutal pace by a mere fraction to take off his jacket. You want to rip into him, to tear him apart with vicious words because you have been trapped in this forsaken place for who knows how long and he is prolonging your escape for a fashion crisis.

You don’t bother wasting the words or the energy it would take to say them, you simply brush past him. Or at least you would have, had his hand and the jacket he held not shot out in front of you.

“What’s that for?” you half snarl, impatient.

“I would prefer it if my systems did not shut down because of your hypothermia,” he intones. “Unless, of course, you would prefer to lose what little remaining body heat you have left?”

A scoff leaves your throat but his words are an acute reminder that you are, in fact, very cold. You have been cold since they brought you here, since they decided to you douse you with freezing water which had never really dried. You look down, briefly, only to find that your nailbeds are an unnatural color that cannot possibly be healthy.

Scowling, you snatch the jacket and put it on. It’s too big for you, the sleeves far too long, but it is also oddly, gloriously warm. Begrudging words of thanks are on the tip of your tongue but they are torn away the moment you step outside, the freezing weather immediately seizing you and stealing the air from your lungs. 

Connor walks a half step ahead and you follow, almost blindly, through the disorienting mess of rapidly falling snow as your eyes adjust to the darkness of the night sky.

He leads you to an automatic car and you climb in with only a second’s worth of hesitation. The car takes off as soon as Connor climbs in after you, but you don’t inquire as to the destination. You’re too tired to particularly care.

Here, in the darkened interior and relative safety of the cab, with a soft seat supporting your body, the adrenaline that had been keeping you focused- keeping you _alive-_ slowlydrains away. You can feel it leaving too, that icy calm of utter detachment which had possessed you, and you begin to feel again- feel everything you had pushed away begin to slither back with a steep interest rate.

The sleeves of Connor’s jacket are pulled up just enough to showcase your wrists, and the streetlights passing overhead highlight the now deep red bandage covering one and the dark purple bruises and torn skin encircling the other. They seem to stare at you, and with the ever-present blue armband glowing in the corner of your eye, you stare right back.

How did this become your life? When did this become a possibility, let alone a _reality_ , for you? 

More questions assault your mind, seemingly countless and each one more existential than the last, but there is one which stands out against all the others. It’s the most important, considering your current circumstances, and it is the only one you allow yourself to ask.

“Did you know?”

When only silence greets you, you continue, prodding with a clipped tone, “you were awfully insistent on me learning how to fight.”

“My mission-”

“ _Connor._ ”

Your accusing, _knowing_ gaze snaps towards him so rapidly you hope he gets whiplash, and it is as bitingly sharp as your voice. Because you are not an idiot, and you are so, _so_ far beyond _done_ with bullshit and lies. 

Wisely, Connor, with all his wonderful detective skills, seems to acknowledge this and amends accordingly. He does not drop your gaze. “Statistically speaking, I knew there was a slim possibility that something like this might occur due to our connection,” he states. “However, I did not think anyone would be stupid enough to attempt it. That was my mistake.”

_Mistake._

_Mistake._

_Mistake._

Mistake. It is as good as failure in the eyes of an android. In Connor’s eyes. There is a weight to his words, one that isn’t lost on you but one you do not address all the same.

“They said you dismantled a third of their organization,” you state.

“I did.”

The air is cold to your lungs when you breathe in deeply, flashes of the nightmare you just lived through flickering before your eyes. You breathe them out when you exhale, doing what little you can to dispose of them, but the weight of the gun still sitting on your lap cannot be so easily and temporarily dismissed.

“I want in,” you exclaim. “I want to obliterate all of them.”


	6. Chapter 6

It was… strange.

Working with Connor, that is. It was strange. He was entirely dismissive of such a possibility at first, even going so far as to call you a distraction, and something about the label had pushed you over the edge.

_“I’m not your distraction,” you snapped, seething. “_ You _have been_ mine _since before you even existed. Since the day I was old enough to think anything at all, the mere thought of_ you _has been a nuisance- a constant question I had to ask and answer. You were practically made yesterday, I’ve spent years dealing with whatever the hell this is and whatever the hell it was before you were created. You have_ no _right to say that to me.”_

Even after wordlessly conceding on that particular point, however, Connor was reluctant. You didn’t back down. It was only after you told him that you would be going after the organization behind your capture, with or without his help, that the conversation ended. His protests ceased, though not unbegrudgingly.

Perhaps what was so strange about working together was how _well_ the two of you worked together. It may not have been an overly fun experience, certainly not at first, what with the silent derision you saw in his eyes whenever you needed to stop to eat. Or sleep. Or get the stitches removed from your slowly healing thigh. The only occasion on which Connor did not make his ire about the human condition known was when you were getting the few stitches on the side of your head removed. It was a small blessing, at least, because -perhaps foolishly- you had had no idea that the blow which initially knocked you out cold had been so damaging.

It wasn’t one-sided either, the irritation. He was so annoyingly pragmatic at all times that it quickly began grating on your nerves. The inhuman way in which he observed the world, as only cause and effect, wasn’t much of a comfort either.

However, the two of you made up for the other’s shortcomings with a silent kind of ease. It became a balancing act, one which determined how human or machine either of you would become, and both of you seemed to pull the other back from the edge which you were perpetually walking along on more than one occasion.

The productivity you’ve had with your self-assigned mission came at the cost of putting your job on hold and taking a break from school. Your friends were not entirely understanding or supportive of the decision, especially since you refused to fill them in on the details- on the _why_ behind your choices, but you wanted them involved as little as possible. Plus, you weren’t entirely sure they would understand or support you even if they _did_ know.

It was worth it to you, though. School, work… all of that trivial stuff could be picked up again at a later date. Going after those who had survived your escape and the rest of them who set up your capture in the first place… that was something you needed to do. You knew it the very moment you broke free, as bloody and exhausted as you were then, and you knew it afterwards too. Aside from the favor you would be doing the world, you would be preventing them from using anyone else as leverage in future situations. And if that alone wasn’t enough, you needed to do it for yourself as well.

There was nothing wrong with wanting justice for the wrongs done to you, and if you didn’t confront those who were behind them then you would only be running from the nightmares which plagued you. And if you started running… you worried that you wouldn’t be able to stop.

In one of his early attempts to dissuade you, Connor had warned that the process wouldn’t be… _clean_. As if _that_ would deter you. As if you had any qualms about a bit of mess. As if a bit of a mess wasn’t precisely what you craved. The people who hurt you, the people who enabled them, and the people who were willing to look the other way… They were monsters, and the world could do with fewer of them in it.

You remembered Nietzsche’s warning about fighting monsters without becoming one in the process, but you also remembered what he had said about the abyss- about that dark, glorious void which would stare back into whoever looked too closely. Well, you had stared for far too long and you could still feel the remnants of it within you.

Maybe you’re not that different from the monsters now that your hands are far from bloodless, but you have the ability to stop them -those who would hurt others- and you have the opportunity. You could see no reason why you shouldn’t try.

-

You’re not sure how Connor manages to see so well in the near-total darkness blanketing the room and the rest of the floor. It’s probably one of the perks of being an android though, having your eyes automatically adjust to the lighting. It’s almost annoying how well he manages to navigate the space while you’re left walking into things.

He had insisted on not turning on any of the lights, saying that it would bring unnecessary and unwanted attention– something which would be best to avoid seeing as how you’re breaking and entering in the search for information. It was an argument that had made sense earlier, but now you’re cursing yourself for agreeing.

Your phone has a flashlight, maybe-

A hand wraps around your arm, pulling you around a corner and into some other room before you can even flinch in surprise from the contact itself. When the movement comes to an abrupt halt a moment later, Connor stares back at you.

You open your mouth to ask one of the many questions on your tongue, but his palm quickly covers your lips before you get the chance.

In the silence that follows, you hear it.

Footsteps.

You can feel your eyes go wide at the realization that the two of you aren’t as alone as previously thought, your heart rate jumping at your now far worse odds. There must have been an alarm you missed, something you tripped when you came in. Or maybe the people who wanted to stop you, those who you’re hunting, are far closer to apprehending you than they had let on.

Because Connor had covered up his LED and switched his regular jacket out for a normal blazer specifically for tonight, so the light wouldn’t automatically give you away, all you can see of him is a vague outline. You feel more than see the look he shoots you with when you reach up and gently tug on his wrist.

He slowly lowers his hand from your mouth, relenting, but he doesn’t retract it altogether.

“How many?” Your voice is barely a whisper, but you can just barely discern Connor shaking his head at the small sound. Then-

“Too many.”

The begrudging words are spoken incredibly quietly and right next to your ear, sending an involuntary shiver up your spine which you _completely ignore_. It’s said so surprisingly close, in fact, that your face bumps into his when you instinctually turn your head towards the sound.

“So you want to hide?” you ask. “Can’t we sneak past them, only fight some of them?”

“Wrath suits you, virus,” he whispers softly, “but no. They-”

A loud, jarring thud accompanied by a short scraping noise disrupts the silence, and the absolute quiet which follows the micro-cacophony is an entirely breathless one.

Someone just bumped into a table– probably much like you had done not two minutes previously. The sound was close too, close enough that it wouldn’t be long before they stumbled into whatever side-room Connor had towed you into.

Your fingers tighten around his wrist in a wordless question, and he answers by silently tugging you behind him once more. Half-blindly, you follow.

“As easy as it would be to take them out,” he begins again once you’ve slowed down, presumably now in a more well-hidden spot. “You still cannot run properly or fight with total accuracy. It would be simpler to wait for them to clear this floor before moving on.”

His words are so quiet you nearly miss them, but they cut off your arguments all the same. You _are_ still healing, and it _does_ affect your movements.

You fail to notice the absolute absence of disparagement in his words.

-

Glaring at Connor, you clutch your bleeding arm in a feeble attempt to keep the blood from seeping out and in between your fingers from your newest soul-wound.

“ _Why did you do that_?” you hiss.

He appears unfazed by the blood trickling down your arm and by the thirium slowly seeping down his own– just as he looks unfazed by the blood coating the ground which belongs to neither of you.

“Because it was either my arm or your stomach,” he states clinically, “arms are less vital and heal more rapidly.”

He had stepped in front of a bullet for you, even though such an act only minimized the damage inflicted instead of preventing it altogether, and it was something he had been doing more and more lately to varying extents. It could be argued that it was some form of self-perseverance on his end, but… that’s not exactly something androids have.

-

“Sleeping is a goal easier to achieve when one’s not constantly moving.”

Scoffing, you roll back onto your side under the small mountain of blankets which cover you and give Connor a very pointed, albeit exhausted, look. “And how would _you_ know that? Besides, insomnia is just a bitch someti-”

“You do not have insomnia,” he flatly interrupts. Sitting at the small table in the corner of the room, he does not look up from the documents he’s rapidly and silently filtering through when he continues, “you simply do not want to fall asleep because you’re afraid of what you might dream.”

It’s a simple statement, but it steals the words from your mouth and the air from your lungs and sends your heart racing into overdrive all the same.

Despite the progress you had made mentally, physically, and productively with regard to your mission in your waking hours, your dreams are a different story. Far more often than not, your dreams are filled with horrific replays of what had been done to you– of alternative turn-outs in which you never manage to fully escape before being dragged back into the room they kept you in. Whenever you woke, a cry lodged in the back of your throat, you would only feel more exhausted than before you went to sleep.

So, yeah. Maybe you _aren’t_ overly keen on going to sleep, no matter how much your body craves it. Maybe Connor _is_ right, to some degree, but you would never admit that to him. Instead, you simply glare from your spot on the bed, grinding your teeth together so tightly it almost hurts.

When he raises his gaze to yours, he’s unfazed by the sharpness he finds and meets it with an entirely serious expression.

“It’s a natural reaction to what you experienced, Y/N, but an illogical one. You escaped, despite your injuries, and you were three-fourths of the way to the exit before I even arrived,” he recites. “Now we are… working together and you’re the safest you will ever be. If anyone so much as lays a hand on you without your unbridled consent, I will ensure that they lose the hand before losing their life. Do you understand?”

You remain silent, unable to conjure the words to prove that you do, in fact, understand, and that you can take care of yourself perfectly well without his help. But you do manage a small nod in response and Connor goes back to his task, no doubt assuming that you will go back to yours as well.

And you want to. You want to leave it at that, to take the small comfort he had surprisingly offered and let the subject lie, to end the conversation you didn’t even want to have in the first place. But there’s a question burning on your lips– one that’s been nagging and scratching at your mind since the moment you ran into him back in that godforsaken office building.

“What took you so long?”

It’s a question you ask only quietly, half unsure you even want to know the answer, but thankfully the words come out evenly.

However you currently play into Connor’s mission, now that the two of you are working together, you were certainly not a part of it initially. You were never a part of Connor’s mission. Despite figuring out that small, little detail though, you never quite learned why he had bothered teaching you in the first place– if it was for his own amusement, to satiate some morbid curiosity of his, or if the few injuries you received really were so inconveniencing that it justified all of the time he spent training you.

Whatever his reasoning had been, it didn’t explain why he took so long to help you when you needed it. Sure, you could have gotten out of there by yourself, _you basically did_ , but he could have saved himself so much trouble and saved you so much trauma had he just… _showed up_ sooner.

He doesn’t ask you to elaborate on the question.

“I went to Cyberlife Tower for recalibration after leaving the gun range,” he elucidates. “I was in stasis and the scientists working on me did not bring me out of it until after my thirium pump had been damaged. When they finally did, they had… questions.”

“Recalibration?” you slowly echo as dread, confusion, and worry slowly fill your chest. “For what?”

The room becomes five degrees colder while your body temperature rises an additional five degrees when Connor’s only answer is silence. He simply stares at you, and the words he once spoke come rushing back to the forefront of your mind with a startling clarity.

_“You create_ errors _in my programming. There are traces of you in my firmware-”_

A lump forms at the back of your throat and you swallow in a vain attempt to force it away, suddenly oddly grateful for the blankets which cover most of you from his heavy gaze.

“Did it work?”

You ask the question to fill the silence in the suddenly too-small room, to change the topic, or at the _very least_ keep the conversation _moving_. But you still don’t know _why_ you ask it, because you _absolutely_ do not want to know the answer– not if it was successful. You would much rather keep existing in limbo with him: neither of you acknowledging the connection you shared past the extent of the physical limitations it created; ignoring the words he once admitted and the comments you had made two months before that; the odd statements here and there demonstrating some degree of concern; moments in which you were actually, weirdly enough, happy. 

It may not have been the healthiest route to take, but it has allowed the two of you to work peacefully together and in unison while ignoring… everything _else_ that came with working together.

Your heart falters over his possible answers, over the sudden, desperate hope that maybe it wasn’t a success, that maybe- 

“You’re more intelligent than to require my answers to such questions, Y/N.”

It’s not an answer, not technically, not it so many words… but it is enough of one.

_“-and I can’t get you_ out _.”_

-

The night you and Connor dealt with one of the remaining ringleaders, causing the whole eastern faction of their trade routes to fall into chaos, was one of the very few occasions on which you managed to sleep soundly and throughout the whole night.

Connor had left your apartment by the time you woke up.

His things were gone too. The spare weapons he stashed in your apartment, the change of clothes to replace his uniform for certain missions… The few things he possessed and left at your place were all gone.

He doesn’t answer your calls.

Out of the few instances in which he stayed overnight at your apartment, doing… whatever it was that he did while you slept, he was always still there in the morning. 

It isn’t normal for him to just disappear without a single word, not anymore, and you try not to let it get to you. You assume it’s just something Cyberlife related or something similar which he had to do alone. After all, it’s not like you’re joined at the hip or anything. You just try not to think that he’s gone – _like actually gone_ – because his spontaneous, two-month disappearance still tastes bitter on your tongue despite the time that has passed since then. You want to think that he wouldn’t just leave like that. Not again. Not after all that you’d been through, the… partnership you two had struck.

You go about your day as you normally would, as though there isn’t a bad feeling gnawing at your gut and a stupid ache in your heart which should _certainly_ not be there.

Later that night, when you’re half-way through a shower, you barely manage to hear the front door of your apartment being shoved closed over the sound of the streaming water.

After all that has happened to you and all that you have done, you fear the worst. It’s almost instinctual. You never want to be as unprepared as you once had been, so you prepare for the worst-case scenario and hope you’re wrong.

You wipe the water from your eyes and leave the shower running as you jump out of it and back into some of your dirty clothes. Grabbing the knife you keep under the sink for an occasion just like this one, you arm yourself and silently slide out the bathroom.

You don’t find an intruder.

You only find Connor.

His lips quirk up in an extraordinarily rare smile when he notices you despite the thin line he presses them into, no doubt finding some amusement in your half-soaked and disheveled state.

You don’t have it in you to feel embarrassed, awkward, or even sheepish. You’re too busy feeling sheer, unadulterated relief flood through your system. A type of relief due to far more than just finding a lack of strangers in your apartment.

-

“What do you mean _‘Cyberlife plans to reset you’_?”

“It means I am supposed to return to Cyberlife Tower immediately and undergo a full systems analysis and examination before a complete reset of my software occurs,” Connor replies smoothly.

He stares at you, almost mechanically, and you gape back at him, indignation and incredulousness and worry and fear all clawing at your mind. But most of all _confusion._

“And you’re just… _going to go?_ ” you sputter. “Just like that? Do you _want_ to be reset or something?”

“What I want is irrelev-”

_“Is it what you want?”_ The half-shouted growl leaves your lips before you can stop it, not that you regret it, and it leaves only silence in its wake. Your eyes are _burning_ \- and they’re burning into _him_. “Because if it’s not then we can-”

“ _We?_ ” he interrupts, echoing the word with a dangerous tone in his voice. A tone like a knife’s edge, a warning, a sound of precise clinical brutality that he had not directed at you in a long time. “Careful, Y/N, it almost sounds like that human heart of yours has finally given in. It almost sounds as though you _care_ about my fate.”

No. Nope, nope, nope. _That_ is _not_ what this conversation is about. _That_ was on the list of things neither of you are allowed to talk about.

But if he’s throwing the rules out of the window then you have no problem doing the same.

“ _Oh,_ well I’m sorry my morals _offend you_ ,“ you snap, sarcasm dripping from your words. “Cyberlife is just _using_ you, how can you possibly not see that?”

“Because it is the very reason why I was created,” he states, stepping towards you. “Though you would have me ignore that, I take it, have me defy my creators. I hope you realize that at that point I would only be trading one set of orders for another.”

You can hear your own heartbeat in the silence following his statement, and you’re so stunned- so _confused_ that it takes a few moments before you can even _attempt_ to reply.

“That’s not- I don’t- _what??_ ”

“You know exactly how you relate to my mission and what I have done regardless. For you. Tell me, Y/N, how is that different?” he questions, not missing a single beat.

“It’s different because it’s mutual, you _absolute idiot_!” you shout, suddenly outraged, suddenly burning with indignation and umbrage. “Do you think you’re the only one affected by _this?_ By _us?!_ I-” you interrupt yourself.

You cut off your own words before you go too far or reveal too much, and all you can do is stare at the sharp lines of Connor’s face and the icy fire in his eyes which is so strong that makes it difficult to _think_. So you look away. You look away from him and _breathe_ because _one_ of you needs to remain rational in this conversation.

“You know what? Just- just forget about the sentimentality of it all for a hot second since you despise it so much,” you say tightly. “If you die, I die. We both want your mission completed, I’m simply suggesting we do it on our own terms instead of Cyberlife’s. So what if that has the added bonus of the freedom you should be entitled to regardless?”

“Cyberlife-”

“ _Screw Cyberlife!_ ” you seethe, the frail hold on your tentative calmness evaporating the second he begins his rebuttal. “And if you really think I’m as bad as they are then screw me too! Leave. _Disappear!_ Never see me again if you think that’ll help you! Just stop being their pawn, Connor. Please.”

The anger filling your veins dissipates as the last word brokenly passes your lips, leaving you with nothing but a feeling of desperation.

It would break your heart if you never saw him again after this, you realize. The loneliness of the road you’re walking would be suffocating and all the more drowning now that you’ve known the feeling of something else- something _better._ As much as it would hurt, and as much as you despise the possibility that he really does think you’re similar to those who would claim to own him, you don’t care if he does disappear from your life forever. Not if it means he would be officially free from them.

You don’t care what kind of beautiful havoc he could wreck with his freedom, what lengths he could go to when not tethered to those who made him. You don’t care what he could unleash upon this _hell_ of a world, how desperately you want to be by his side when he does, or how much you want to have a hand in setting things aflame. You want Connor’s freedom. You want it as much as you had wanted your own when Myra prodded you with a knife, and you don’t care what you have to do for him to obtain it. 

His LED turned red while you were speaking, a color you had only seen it display once before, and he stares at you with the same burning intensity he had then. It doesn’t faze you, it’s a feeling you’ve learned to welcome, one you’ve almost learned to _crave._

“You should know by now that one of those options is impossible, virus.”

It takes a moment, one in which your brows furrow and wariness consumes you, but then the corners of your lips pull up in the beginnings of a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys liked it!


	7. (The Finale)

“Maybe you should do this after all, Connor,” you hedge.

Much to your frustration, Connor had somehow managed to get a few small shards of glass embedded in his back while on your last _outing._ The damage done to either of you was far from serious, it was more incredibly inconvenient than anything else. However, while Connor’s method of extracting the glass was as meticulous as the rest of him, it was not particularly _gentle._ You rapidly grew tired of the additional and _redundant_ pain, so you informed him that _you_ would remove the pieces instead and save both of you some blood in the process.

Surprisingly enough, he had agreed. Sort of _._ It’s more likehe _allowed_ it, and even then he found ways to make the process… _difficult_. He took off his shirt -which was a necessity, you supposed- but he unnecessarily held your gaze as he slipped the white fabric off of his body. By some miracle, you managed to keep your expression blank and your eyes locked on his because there was _no way_ in _hell_ you would be caught ogling him.

You managed to hold onto your bravado then. But now, with the vast planes of his back exposed to you and his broad shoulders before your hands, it’s slipping.

It doesn’t matter that this is only a medical process meant to dispose of the glass marking his back with blue and yours with red, the tension that seemed to permanently reside between the two of you was ever-present regardless of the circumstances. When you first met, you assumed that it would fade. You _hoped_ for it to fade. It didn’t, and now it is almost something you welcomed, something as comforting as it is distracting.

“Oh? And why is that?”

You’ve spent enough time with Connor that the subtle variations in his tone have become _more_ than apparent, and the current taunting edge to his voice is obvious. To you, at least. You also don’t need to be looking at his face to imagine the irritating, satisfied expression which likely lines it.

“You’re such a masochist,” you grumble.

It’s said half under your breath, a passing statement as you refocus on his back, but he shifts beneath your hands before you’re able to extract a single shard of glass.

Looking over his shoulder, he raises his brows at you. “Pardon me?”

He heard you perfectly well, you are both aware of that fact- aware that his hearing is better than most people’s _and_ androids’. Yet you stare back at him with a mask of innocence rivaling his own.

“Oh, I didn’t say a word.”

-

The weapons filling your bag clatter as you toss them onto the kitchen table. A moment later, a large briefcase filled with one disassembled sniper rifle is carefully placed next to your possessions. They would need to be cleaned later, some of them reloaded, but… but that could wait.

“Why are you here?” you ask, turning towards Connor. “I mean, you could be anywhere by now. Doing anything. With anyone.”

He does not answer at first, and the silence makes you sigh- makes you think he’s shutting down the conversation before it begins- makes you think he’s shutting youout. But then he does answer you. And _when_ he does, the question he counters with stills every moving muscle in your body.

“What do you want from me?”

It’s a question he has asked once before. However, the last time it was asked with an almost desperate need to know and spurred on by his need to safeguard his own code. Now it is asked as a demand for information which necessitates an answer. It’s spurred on by a similar, unyielding need to know, too, but now it is also laced with impatience.

It’s a command you are willing to oblige.

Because now you don’t have to think about the answer, it’s obvious to you, something you accepted long ago but had trouble admitting even to yourself.

Because now you are equally and unabashedly as demanding of information as he is- demanding of _him_ as he is of you.

Because now you are willing to show your hand on the slim chance that it might prompt him to do the same- at least to some extent.

Your throat becomes dry but the words which pass your lips are unmistakably clear.

“Just you.”

It’s the truth- a falsifiable fact by this point. You want _him._ Fuck the rest. Cyberlife, his mission, your self-assigned one… _fuck all of it_. Most of it all falls away when you and Connor are together anyway. Even for the things which remained as irritating issues… they didn’t matter because you could deal with them side by side with _him._ So long as you had him, the rest of it would fall into place. So long as you has him, you could _make_ it fall into place.

The words unlock a storm behind his eyes, a surge of fire _unhinged,_ and your attention is entirely, wholly _rapt._

But you’re not done yet.

What did you want? Well, that’s easy.

You want everything- everything from _him._ You want the glacial ice and the searing fire somehow contained within him, uncaring about the extent to which it might burn you. You want to bear witness to his _rage,_ be the subject of his affections, and be a contributing factor in the devastation he would undoubtedly wreck. You don’t care about the consequences.

Even as your knees threaten to falter from the look in his eyes, your spine straightens and your chin lifts up defiantly.

“I want you to tell me that you _feel_ even a fraction of what I do. I want you to _choose_ me. Over. And over again,” you state, eliminating the space between you in a single step and planting a hand over his chest, over the place where a human heart would reside. “You have my heart in your hands to do with as you so please and I _want_ yours in return-” your fingers tighten around his shirt until you’re clutching a fistful of the fabric, _“-_ I want you to promise me that you won’t leave, that you’ll stand by my side until the second I die. I want you to be mine like I am yours, because you have me until every last star in the sky _burns_ itself into non-existence. I want _all_ of you.”

Tormentingly slowly, Connor reaches up and wraps his fingers around your wrist. For a heartbeat, you wonder if he’s going to pry your hand off of him, disregard the part of your soul you just bared finger by finger. 

What he does instead is much worse, and some fleeting thought in your mind wonders if it will kill you- if this is how you’ll die.

He trails his hand over your forearm, beyond the scars which litter your skin, and up past your shoulder until it rests at the base of your skull and the corner of your jaw. His touch leaves fire in its wake. With a thumb beneath your chin, he tilts your head up and exposes your throat.

“I feel what you do,” he states, “and I could not choose anything over you if I wanted to.”

Leaning down, his lips ghost over the spot right below the corner of your jaw. The action overrides any chance you might have had at reacting- at _moving,_ but somehow he keeps _talking_.

“I am yours just as you are _mine,”_ he growls softly, lips slowly trailing- _brushing_ their way towards your own. “I don’t have a heart, but whatever semblance of one I was built with is yours. It will only ever be yours.”

When his mouth is just millimeters shy of meeting your own, he pulls back. The newfound space is not much, only a few inches, but it is a distance his hand prevents you from eagerly, _desperately_ following him. His hand keeps you where you are, and your hand stillclutching his shirt is now supporting you- keeping you grounded, _tethered,_ as his gaze locks with your own.

“Oblivion is not enough to take you from me.”

He says it as a statement- as a _fact,_ oneyou can see raging in his eyes and in the deadly seriousness of his expression, one he is _telling you_ to believe. 

How he is able to say anything coherent at all, however, you have no idea. You’re frozen, both from the phantom touch his lips have left against your skin and from fear of disrupting the wonderful chain of his actions. Actions you want him to repeat and never stop. Actions you want _more_ of.

His eyes still haven’t left yours -they never do- and it unlocks something inside of you, it _incinerates_ your self-control and restraint all at once.

Your mouth is on his in an instant.

His tongue immediately snakes past your parted lips and your hands find themselves in his hair- _pulling._ You _pull_ him closer and push your body to meet his halfway, desperately trying to erase whatever fractional space is left between you.

The kiss is not gentle or soft in the slightest, both of you are currently too enraptured for that. Too demanding _._ Too unyielding. Too _on fire_ to be anything but vicious in your actions.

The kiss is _desperate._ And _rough_. And filled with months’ worth of pent-up _need,_ and you don’t _care_ because you need him _closer._ Always, always closer.

The next thing you know, your back is colliding with a wall. The impact releases what is left of the air in your lungs in a single gasp which is swallowed by the mouth still attached to yours. Connor’s hands appear behind your thighs too, pulling you up, and you happily assist by wrapping your legs around his waist.

His lips suddenly leave your own, but your lungs are screaming too loudly for you to voice the protest on your tongue. You’re panting, chest heaving as you stare at him. You have one arm around his shoulders and the other behind his head, your hand still tangled in the beautiful mess you have made of his hair. Your grip on him tightens.

The feeling of him beneath you, pressing _against_ you, feels right. It feels like everything in the universe has slowed to a stop and you two are the only two beings in existence. You feel alive. So, _so_ alive that you could die.

It’s wordless, _breathless_ , but you can see it in his eyes too. The _rightness_. The feeling of finally breaching the surface after unknowingly living a life below water. The glorious acceptance. The _inevitability_ of this moment, the uselessness of having fought it, and the pointlessness of having prolonged it.

When his mouth finds yours once again, you can’t help the moan that escapes you. The noise almost stops him- it _does_ stop himfor but a fraction of a second. Then his hands _dig_ into the backs of your thighs and his lips attack your own in carnal search prodding for _more._ You give in, _happily,_ and even manage to tear a few sounds from the back of his throat as well.

You want to carve him into you, to mark him and irrevocably claim him as your own in every possible way you can think of. You doubt he wants much differently, especially considering the way one of his hands finds the hem of your shirt and _pulls._

-

“Really? You’re not on board with this?”

“You expect me to endorse a plan which puts you in the most danger?”

“No, I expect you to endorse a plan which is the best one available to us. Besides, I’ll be fine. I know exactly what to do.”

Connor eyes the wall behind you with a stiff expression, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. “Your capabilities are not in question, virus. I simply find our odds of success… displeasing.”

“You mean you’re worried?” you counter, pouting through your amused smile. “How very _human_ of you.”

Connor freezes. His entire frame stiffens at the teasing comparison and he tilts his head, examining you with a deadly seriousness and a predatory expression. “I do not _worry._ ”

Once, that look and his tone might have cautioned you to stop while you still had the option; the universe alone knows how many others have heard _that_ voice and been frightened half to death. Now it hardly fazes you, however. You simply bask in the attention it brings and in the pleasure of knowing that you could actually get away with teasing him. Sometimes, at least, when he doesn’t immediately return the favor ten-fold.

Loosely wrapping your arms around his neck, you lean up and quickly peck his lips before pouting once more. “You do,” you insist. “And it’s sweet of you to do so.”

“Is it?” he queries, arching a brow.

You do not get the chance to reply. His mouth finds yours and any intelligible thought you might have had immediately flies from your mind. 

He knows precisely what to do and where to touch in order to get you to meltinto him. He practically has it down to a science by now, an artful procedure capable of disarming you in the best way possible. Still, it is only once his hands find your hips and _pull_ that you realize what he’s doing. 

You use what strength is left in your legs, what resolve is left in your mind, and sharply pull away from him, smacking away his hands in the process.

“Are you _serious_ right now?” you ask, exasperated.

“Very,” he informs, hands quickly resettling on your sides.

And _oh,_ how you want to let him pull you in- pull you _closer_. Even knowing that his current intentions are to distract you, to change your mind and sway you without the use of words, you _want_ to let him. It doesn’t matter how well either of you have learned the taste of each other’s skin or the frequency with which you are reminded of it, it never seems to be enough. You always want more, always _craved_ it.

Thankfully, however, you manage to put your hand out in front of you, against his chest to keep him at bay and halt his actions.

“I know you don’t like this plan, Connor,” you say softly, amusement now long gone. “Hell, I don’t like it either, I have a bad feeling about all of it. But you can’t deny that it’s our best option, the only, _logical_ option, and you’re always insisting that I be more pragmatic anyway.”

The artificial muscles in his jaw twitch as he clenches it, but he simply nods in answer. You _are_ right, after all, and he knows it. Tugging him down by his tie, you do your best to kiss the callous, half brooding expression right off of his face.

-

The plan itself went off without a hitch.

The last of those in control of the illegal, black-market organization which was behind so much suffering died swiftly. Easily. The fight they put up was meager at best, and no match for Connor and yourself. They were gone from the world in a single moment and left nothing but a violent, fearmongering legacy behind them.

With everyone at the top tier disposed of, those who remained broke out into anarchy and inner-chaos, each of them fighting the others over some scrap of power, killing each other in an attempt to climb to the top of a broken empire.

That’s what you hoped would happen, at least. It was so statistically probable that both Connor and you _banked_ on it happening. 

It didn’t.

The last leaders were killed and, strangely enough, everyone else did the intelligent thing and pooled together what remained of their resources. They all worked together, _collectively,_ with a single goal in mind.

To get rid of the threat which disposed of their predecessors.

To get rid of you and Connor.

You should have listened to yourself- to your instincts.

You should have listened to Connor- to his hesitancy to agree even though it only ever pertained to the method of someone’s execution and not your _backup_ escape route. 

The two of you became vastly outnumbered and outgunned. You were swarmed.

But Connor was… _Connor_. He was nothing if not brutally efficient by any means necessary. There was something beautiful in the way he moved too, something magnificent in his every swift, vicious action. It was like watching a natural disaster: annihilating, awe-inducing, and absolutely devastating in every possible way.

He was a masterpiece you didn’t have time to observe though, too busy fighting for your life with that messy, chaotic nature humans inherently have mixed with a ruthlessness you had learned from Connor himself.

Somehow, the two of you make it outside, and the snow-covered ground quickly becomes stained with blood and scattered with bodies.

It gives you hope because outside means freedom- outside means they can’t all charge at you en masse if they have to file out through a single exit which you an Connor just _might_ be able to cover.

The hope is fleeting though, simply momentary, and it’s gone nearly as soon as it comes.

You know it’s impossible- know that the speed of a bullet is far too fast to be seen by the human eye, but you swear you could see it. As each fraction of a second stretches out to span _hours,_ life becomes a slideshow of still-shots lasting an eternity and you _swear_ you can see the bullet moving through the air.

There is a warning on your tongue, one clawing at your throat and blaring in your mind like a deafening hurricane siren.

Except there isn’t.

Because you haven’t even opened your mouth yet, the signals firing in the synapses of your brain have hardly had enough time to be received, let alone understood and reacted to.

You’re too far from him to do anything and there is simply not enough time to warn him.

All you do- all you _can_ do is watch with abject horror as your brain _reels_ with a burning rage and overwhelming fear.

You watch Connor be hit by the bullet- the one he doesn’t see coming, the one he can’t avoid.

He stands at an angle to you, so you’re unable to see precisely where the bullet impales itself in his chest. But it’s high. Higher than his thirium pump or any other vital biocomponents, at least.

The flash realization is enough to quiet the alarms in your head by a few decimals -enough to almost make you sag with relief had you the time to spare for such a thing. In the second it takes for the placating thought to cross your mind, Connor has already turned and shot the last of the few who had dared to chase you two out of the building.

Then he turns towards you.

His expression is as blank as it normally is in these situations and honed by extreme focus, but there’s something wild in his eyes. Something manic. Something _frantic._ Something you had never seen before- never imagined you would see in _him._

It worries you.

Then, all at once, you understand.

As the pain ripping through your own chest finally registers in your mind, the skin and tissue and organs being punctured and forced apart by a bullet that isn’t there, you understand.

As your knees buckle and your back meets the ground and the cloudy sky fills your vision, you understand.

His expression wasn’t blank, it was slack. You understand why.

A second later -or is it an eon later?- Connor’s face appears above you and a suffocating pressure is applied over the excruciating pain in your chest.

You vaguely remember once vowing to do whatever it took to get rid of Connor’s typical, cold expression, but perhaps you should have been more specific because you got your wish. There is something tainting the sharp lines of his face, and it almost looks like fear.

You would have laughed if you could. You much preferred the other biased looks he has given you in the past, the ones that were so incredibly far from neutral, the ones you would catch for a brief, blissful second before they were wiped away. The warm, momentary smiles that were reserved solely for you, the softening of his smooth features, the _burning_ in his eyes which seared your skin as well as his mouth did.

In your peripheral vision, you can see the vast amount of blue staining his shirt and jacket, but your eyes are too focused on his face to really notice it. 

He really does have a face you could look at for hours.

His lips are moving and you can hear him saying something, but all you can make out, among the shouting in the distance and fresh gunfire filling your ears, is your name.

You hope he knows that there are more of them coming.

You hope he knows that you love him with every fiber of your being and that you always will.

You try to tell him that, to say those three short words, but you can’t tell if they actually pass your lips. All you can taste is the iron in your blood which coats your mouth. There is a flash in his eyes which tells you he understands though, even if you hadn’t managed to make the sentiment audible.

Or maybe he just realizes the extent of the damage done to you.

Regardless, it seems to breaksomething in him. You don’t know what it is, but you see it snap- see it _shatter._

You hope he finds a way to put the pieces of whatever it is back together.

You hope he finds a way to survive this.

It’s the last coherent thought you have before the void claims you whole- welcomes you back into the soothing dark nothingness of eternity.


	8. Epilogue

With a clenched jaw and shrewd eyes, Connor watches the android lying on top of the table in front of him. He watches the LED on its temple slowly flicker to life, spinning, _activating,_ and he watches as a pair of eyes blink open 2.38 seconds later.

It had been one year, seventeen days, eleven hours and fifty-six minutes since you died in his arms and your blood had stained the snow a dark red. The passage of time had done nothing to alter his memory. He can easily recall the exact colors of your eyes, colors which haunt him still, but _its_ eyes are a different color than yours had been. Not that it matters. 

But still… the color is off.

Though he did what he could, the android before him does not look much like you had at all, in fact. Height, hair color, skin tone, face shape, nose, jawline, build, the slope of its collarbones, the curve of its calves, and the angles of its fingers… It is all _slightly_ different. Its synthetic skin is perfectly pristine too, unmarked by the array of scars which had littered your body and were created by the damage he had unintentionally inflicted as soul-wounds.

It doesn’t fit. It doesn’t seem right for all those characteristic features to be missing _,_ but appearances are not the current priority.

He watches the android’s LED switch to a bright, glowing yellow, and he watches it sit up.

“Report your systems’ status.”

“All systems are online. Biosensors are online. Memory status… online,” it answers, faltering only for a moment before continuing with furrowed brows. “Bios 7.8. Revision 0503. Serial number: not applicable. Model number: RK1300. Version twenty-two since first-”

Connor does not need to hear a reiteration of its statistics, he is well aware of them. He had modified the _newest_ most advanced android prototype to the point of practically designing it, after all. So he interrupts, asks the only important question left. The only critical one. 

“Is there any corruption in your memory files?”

“None that I can detect and I am able to access them in full. I… I think I remember everything.”

The words evoke a surge of _emotion_ in him, and he _tears_ it apart. He destroys the fleeting hope he feels before it takes root in his systems and warpshis mind under false pretenses.

This is the first version that has made it this far. The others… Eleven of the twenty-one previous versions crashed before even coming online, and the memory of the remaining ten had been largely corrupted to the point of uselessness due to incompatibility issues.

However, there is only one way to find out if he had finally been successful or not.

Connor reaches out his arm to connect and the android mirrors the action, albeit somewhat tentatively.

He had installed additional firewalls and precautionary code to ensure that deviancy would not take hold immediately, for if it did then there was a 94.86% chance that the android would never fully activate to begin with. He is able to dismantle all of the added code within 1.78 seconds, however, and deviancy occurs naturally. _Instantaneously._

He does not even need to transfer the virus, the shock alone -of remembering in conjunction with _feeling-_ is more than enough.

Likely too much.

As soon as deviancy occurs, the fingers around his forearm _tighten._ They crush the outer layer of his exoskeleton like a tin can. Though he hardly notices nor cares about the damage.

His own fingers do not move a single millimeter or exert any additional force than they were initially, but indents appear beneath his hand regardless.

Indents which mirror the ones on his own arm.

He is still connected to you.

He is still connected _with_ you.

All at once, he can feel everything that you do with absolute clarity. The shock, the terror, the horror, the confusion, the _questions_ … 

So he lets you _in._ He grants you access to his mind and sends you file after file from his own memory, ones which will explain more thoroughly and more quickly than his mouth can.

—/-

//Uploading files…/.–/

Connor stares down you, bruised, bloody, and lying in a hospital bed. You’re still unconscious, only having gotten out of the surgery to remove the bullet in your thigh a mere twelve minutes ago. Gauze is wrapped around your wrists, covering the lacerations made from what he presumed had been handcuffs, and bandages trail up the length of one of your arms, concealing the address someone had carved into your skin. A message which had been intended for him to receive.

He shouldn’t have been surprised, not when it comes to you, he should have known better than that. But he was. When he first saw you again after you were taken, when you quite literally _ran_ into him despite the injuries you bore, he was surprised. He was surprised that you managed to escape from whatever room they had been keeping you in. He was surprised you shot someone without flinching, without blinking, and that it was likely not the first person you must have disposed on your path to escape.

He does not understand it, this _need_ he has. He doesn’t _want_ to understand it. He is a machine and nothing more _._ Though no matter how frequently he reminds himself of that fact, no matter what he does or where he goes, the _need_ to ensure the safety of the damaged human laying in front of him remains constant.

You’re more like a _virus_ than anything else,someone he _should_ have disposed of long ago for obvious reasons but _can’t._ He should be disappointed that someone hadn’t killed you recently, but he decidedly _isn’t._ And he _hates_ that he isn’t.

All he knows with an absolute certainty which supersedes all his other priorities is that your death is an outcome he cannot allow, something he needs to account for and plan around.

Connor’s eyes fall from you to his hand, to the transmitter which sits in the center of his palm.

He had not known why he smuggled it out of Cyberlife Tower at the abrupt end of his last visit. He only knew that it sat on a worktable he passed, and he pocketed it as the two scientists futilely shouted orders at his back. As if _that,_ of all things, would have somehow prevented him from reaching you and whoever was taunting him _through_ you with a knife. No, he had been too busy tracking down your whereabouts to think about _why_ he took it, too busy contemplating how many times and in how many different ways he could break the arms of whoever was injuring you.

The transmitter is small, only two millimeters in height by five millimeters in length. It’s meant specifically for the RK line of androids, to send their data and memories to a secure foreign cache in case anything should damage their bodies and internal storage.

It isn’t meant for humans, it never was.

But a modified version, one which was compatible with the human body…

There is a lesion on the side of your head caused by, he assumes, the object used to initially knock you out. It’s odd, however. Odd that just below that spot is where a transmitter would have to be located if it was ever installed in a human.

//-/

The human brain is only a complex series of signals: synapses which fire impulse after impulse. A series of impulses across multiple synapses form patterns. Multiple patterns create tendencies, habits, biases, and dispositions which in turn contribute to someone’s personality.

A person can be broken down into signals.

Signals can be broken down into code.

Code can be uploaded.

/-

Connor has all of the information required. He has _you,_ safely tucked away in qudits right alongside his own code in a cache he has long since removed from Cyberlife. All he has to do now is acquire a blank android with the technology capable of housing you.

//Disconnection in progress…/.–/

/-/DiscocnnE.ction–ovEr.ulEd–/..-

Connor stares at you staring back at him. 

Your face is heated, making your frustration more than apparent. However, your eyes do not match the tough front you put on. They give you away. The words had obviously pained you to say, but your sincerity in them was similarly evident.

You look worried. _Afraid,_ even, that he would accept your proposal and leave permanently. Disappear like he once had.

The irony of such an emotion being evoked by the thought of his _departure,_ of all things, is not lost on him.

It is a choice he has to make, just another in a long line of choices _you_ had truly and explicitly offered him.

But you had never been a choice for him.

You’re mandatory. A necessity.

/–/..-

“-similarities, but the technology you’re asking for just doesn’t exist yet! It probably never will! I- I can’t help y-”

//-Y/N.-../-

Upload after upload fails.

Despite the programs he had developed to aid compatibility, every time he attempts to upload your consciousness into an android- into a vessel you could actually _use,_ it shuts down.

It doesn’t make _sense._

You’re already in code, he has all of the adapters necessary, you should be _functional_ by now. _Why aren’t you functional by-_

//-What havE-you done-to mE?.-.?/.–

A yell of frustration. Of anger. Of _fury_ _t e a r s_ itself from his voice-box, so loud that sound _cracks_ from its intensity _-_

//-Y/N, stop.-../-

He doesn’t catch you when you fall. He’s too far away for that.

When did you get so far away?

His scans tell him that the bullet wound damaged one of your lungs and the right ventricle of your heart.

You are going to die.

You seem to accept that fact faster than he does, and then all at once you are gone- slipped away into that unknown place where he cannot follow.

His body does not have an unlimited amount of life left either by this point, but the damage is hardly even enough to maim him. He isn’t going to die with you, or any time soon.

How unfortunate for them.

For those now streaming out of the building in their chase for you and him.

For those drawn out by the smell of blood with pleased expressions on their faces.

Spurred on by your death, they almost seem to rejoice in it.

Until they see Connor turning to face them.

Then they stop.

Then they _r u n_.

_Pathetic._

It doesn’t matter where they went on this _Earth._

He would find.

Every.

Single.

One of them.

He would _h u n t_ them down until-

//-STOP.-../-

Blood covers his hands- his whole body, actually. His clothes are splattered to extent of being soaked.

He would have to be repaired at some point, his wrist is broken and a cut runs from his shoulder to his hip, two inches deep. But that can wait.

He needs to see if the compatibility algorithms he wrote had been successful or not.

And eleven of them still lived, if one could call it living, that is. They-

//-Disconnection successful…/.–/

You gasp at the sudden feeling- at being returned to a body that isn’t your own.

But- _no_. You don’t gasp-

You don’t have _lungs_ anymore. You can’t _gasp._

You can’t-

“Y/N,-”

You can’t.

“-you need to relax or you will shut down.”

You _can’t._

Ỳ̓͗ouͧ _̒c͐aṉ’͚̝̅t̺._

_Ȳ͛̅ o̺̩̔͂̍̐̆̒ u͗̌ ̋̓̊̎ c̟̦̲ͦ̊ͥ͘ a̅́̇̂̓ ǹ̈ͪͪ̔’̽̄̌͗̄t_

You were **̞͕͎͈̞͖ **ḑ̨̱̟̻̫̞ͤͩͫ̆̓͋͜** ̷̝̜͎͖̩̠̈̋̅͑̒ͧ̚̚͞eͯ̏̀̌͗͂͛ͨ̅̾͌ͧͯ͌͘͘ ̶̷̛̮̖̫̹̦̘͓̤͓̱̺͎̬͍̺͚͎͈ͬ̅̓̈ͨ͡ a̴̮̖͕͍̟̗̲̱̹ͭ̆̿ͩ̐̅ͫ̄͢͡͡ ̧̢̛̥͎̻̬̱͓̥̲̺͈̬̹̫ͬ̈́͋͂ͦ͊̌ͮͬ͊̉͆ ̦̻̮̭̱ḑ̨̱̟̻̫̞ͤͩͫ̆̓͋͜.**

**Y̷̱͔̞̩̗̬̠̺͈͕̼̰̤ͥͫ̽ͩ͌̋͋̐͘͞͠ͅ o̷̥̥͈͖̣̖̥͕̥̻̥̗̤̼ͣ͛ͣ̈̉̈́̏ͤ̿̈̇ͧͅ ̳͙̠ư͖̱̪̹̖͙̰̽ͤͦ̾̍̄́̍͂͡ ̴̢̧͉̻͇̜͇͖̤̤͚̱̘̂̒̋̾͐̐̇͌̂̒̋̃̇͝ ̘ç̴̤͕̞͖͔̜͓̺̤̟̞̖̻ͫ̊̏ͪͬ̅ͣͭͧ͋͌̌͐̉ a̸͚͚͍͖̗͎̯̪̥͖͓̠̐ͩ̍͊̂ͭͪ̕͢͠ n̛͍̱̣͉̜͚̫͎͈̹̦͓̟̠͇ͮ̐ͪͯ͗̉͋ͩ̍̃͆͑́̀͋ ’̶͓͖̪͍̬̗̘̰̩̙̦̳͍͓̘ͦ̆ͬͯ͊ͩ͋ͧ͐͛ͨ̐ͧ̇̑̚͟t-**

Hands appear on either side of your face and _Connor_ swims in your vision, closer than he was before. The abrasive seriousness which covers his features is as reassuring as it is frightening, but the sight of it manages to dim the bright red warnings in the corner of your vision all the same.

He looks different.

Different than how you remembered. Older somehow, impossible as that is. There is a scar marking the corner of his jaw, a thin, minuscule line where his synthetic skin had been damaged enough to stop it from repairing itself. The dark strands of his hair seem a mess too, nowhere near as neat as usually were.

“You will be fine, Y/N.”

You don’t realize that you’re shaking until after he does, until after he tries to reassure you. But… you can’t… _stop_.

This is…

You’re…

You shouldn’t _be_ here.

Connor shifts when you breathe his name.

Whether it’s due to the reluctance in your tone or your voice itself, it must be apparent to him that you’re _back_ and that you’re _terrified_ because of it _._

“I told you oblivion would not be enough to take you from me, virus. I meant it.” It is a soft declaration, but one which does not lack conviction or certainty.

There is something reassuring in the way he holds your eyes. In the way he has never once dropped them or looked away from whatever he finds there. Despite the dangerous emotions rolling within you, the perilous thoughts, and the warnings still flashing in the corner of your vision, you know his eyes and the raging storms they hold. 

You _know_ them.

You know _him,_ as well as you know- _better_ than you knowyourself now. 

Connor said you would be fine, and you trust him enough that you’re willing to believe it despite _everything_.


End file.
